


i am a toy that people enjoy, 'til all of the tricks don't work anymore

by playthetyrants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Suicide Attempts, Parentlock, Post TFP, Shakespeare is a huge theme in this, arguing/fighting, because I love angst, i'm forgetting many things please just read this, mentions of Eurus and Sherrinford and all that jazz, nothing too major, obviously, panic attacks are mentioned as well, slight violence and blood, themes of death/dying, this is really dramatic and i love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playthetyrants/pseuds/playthetyrants
Summary: "i will die, and leave him all. Life, living, is all Death's."





	i am a toy that people enjoy, 'til all of the tricks don't work anymore

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! it's been quite a while since i've posted anything but this fic has been being worked on for a couple months now. the college life prevented me from working on it as much as i wanted to but now that it's summer i finally found time and i couldn't be more pleased. 
> 
> this fic is a bit darker than the others i've written, though it's nothing major. John and Sherlock are particularly dark people; i felt like this would come sooner or later. If you are particularly triggered by suicide/suicide mentions, be wary of reading. 
> 
> this is dedicated to my lovely friend Sydney, who turns 20 today. thanks for being my friend and putting up with my bullshit for so long. this is for you.
> 
> title is lyrics from "Liability" by Lorde.
> 
> NOTE: POV changes during this fic. there's a slight gap with stars, and it switches from John's POV to Sherlock's. Hope this isn't too confusing.

Things were okay again.

They were in a good place.

It was a normal week; well, as normal as it could be in the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Normal wasn’t something in their vocabulary.

However...normalcy was craved. It was sought after, it was wished for and desperately needed. To be normal meant to be okay. It meant that the nightmares had stopped, that the PTSD from seeing flashing lights and loud noises didn’t keep them awake at night.

Being normal equaled having some sense of emotional stability...which, John figured he did. Sherlock...well, he was sure Sherlock had never been any sort of stable in his entire life, and that was okay because now they had this life together, this life full of cases and adventures and Rosie and even though it was strange at times, it was okay. It was fine.

It was their “normal”.

And, despite how much he hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t, John figured that the whole facade had to end sometime.

* * *

“I’m assuming things are going well at home?” Rachel’s voice somehow managed to cut through the sheer chaos of the office John was in. His arm quickly caught Rosie as she attempted to free fall from his lap and she let out a shrill giggle in return, blinking up at her father with large brown eyes.

“Yeah, things are good. Really good.” John tightened his grip as his daughter let out another squeal and wriggled her way against his thighs in some sort of attempt to get down, still giggling loudly.

Rachel smiled softly at him, giving her pen yet another click as she scribbled something down on the journal sitting on her lap. She was dressed in a mint green pantsuit today; John made a mental note to tell Sherlock about it. He’d taken some sort of interest into the particularly wild outfits his boyfriend’s therapist wore.

“And how is Sherlock doing? I saw him in the papers a couple days ago, he got some sort of award?” John snorted, getting another burst of laughter out of Rosie before he nodded quickly.

“Yeah, Scotland Yard gave him one. Something along the lines of being a “distinguished member” of the department. I’m sure it was all Detective Inspector Lestrade’s idea; he’s thankful for him, but he knows how much Sherlock hates attention like that.” John smiled fondly, shifting Rosie in his lap once more. “But he deserves it. He does all of these good things all the time and he needs more appreciation.”

John had never particularly enjoyed going to therapy. It wasn’t a fun thing; he’d always looked at it as a sort of scarlet letter, another attempt to fix his mess of a psyche that never ended up going as planned. But he’d been seeing Rachel for nearly a year now and after the first month he’d found himself somewhat looking forward to his Tuesday afternoon sessions.

Rachel smiled warmly at him, pushing a lock of her dark curls behind her ear. “He’s a great man, I’m happy for him. I’m assuming he’s at work since little Rosie is joining us today?” Rosie perked up immediately at the sound of her name and beamed at Rachel, thriving in all of the attention. John grinned, reaching out and stroking her hair gently.

“Last minute call out for a case we’ve been working on, he wasn’t particularly happy about leaving her behind. But our little bug turned 18 months old yesterday so we’re going out to celebrate tonight when he gets home, isn’t that right?” Rosie ignored him, too busy examining the lush blue carpeting she’d just noticed was beneath them and Rachel laughed softly.

“I’m sure she’ll love that.” She scribbled something else down and then glanced at her watch, raising an eyebrow. “Goodness, it’s nearly 6 already?” John finally let Rosie slide down from his lap and onto the floor, watching as she immediately began running her tiny hands along the carpet, ecstatic at the new feel of it. He looked up and gave her a warm smile.

“These seem to get faster every week.” Rachel smiled and shut her journal, setting it and her pen down on the coffee table in front of her.

“Anything else you’d like to talk about last minute? Anything on your mind?” John thought for a moment, feeling Rosie begin to pull herself up to stand, hanging onto his pant leg.

“Nothing I can think of. Everything is...everything is great right now.”

Well...yeah, right now it was.

Great wasn’t something that happened to John very often.

Great was running into Mike and finding Sherlock all of those years ago.

Great was holding Rosie in his arms for the first time.

Great was right now, this time in his life where he lived with his boyfriend and daughter and nothing bad was happening to him.

Great never lasted very long for John.

The sudden thunderstorm that had overtaken London when John stepped out a few minutes later was one that chilled the air and shook the windows of his car with thunder. He quickly buckled Rosie into her seat as the rain poured down all around them. He managed to get into the driver’s seat decently soaked, but not completely, and listened in fond silence on the ride home as Rosie talked animatedly to herself, looking out the window at the various cars and bright flashes of lightning that lit up the town every so often. John took his time on the slick roads and they got back home a little after 6:30. Rosie giggled loudly as John tried his best to shield her face from the pouring rain, running up to the front door and pushing it open, leaping inside.

Mrs. Hudson immediately gasped, crossing over from her spot in the hallway where she’d been cleaning. “John Watson, what did I say about keeping an umbrella in the car?!” John shook his hair out and gave her a sheepish smile, Rosie quickly imitating her dad and shaking her head around randomly.

“It was in there for awhile. I’m sure Sherlock borrowed it,” he mused, and grinned as Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.

“Well, find it again! I will not have you giving my sweet little goddaughter a cold!” She reached out and cupped Rosie’s cheeks, pressing a kiss to her head and Rosie giggled in return, clapping her hands happily. John smiled and nodded.

“Of course. Has Sherlock gotten back yet?” He jumped suddenly as the door burst open once more, turning around to find a soaking wet Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway, looking displeased. His dark curls were stuck to his alabaster colored face, his coat dripping heavily onto the tile floor as he grimaced, shutting the door rather loudly behind him.

“It’s raining,” he stated stoically, and Mrs. Hudson let out another anguished sort of gasp as John smirked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Where’s the umbrella? You took it out of the car, didn’t you?” Sherlock ignored him, shrugging off his wet coat and hanging it on the hook to his left, wiping water from his eyes with his fingers.

“Mrs. Hudson! So lovely to see you.” John bit back a laugh as Sherlock crossed over and kissed her cheek, earning a swat on the shoulder from the landlady.

“All 3 of you are going to catch colds and get sick! Then how are you supposed to go out and solve cases?!” Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully and turned around, face immediately lighting up when he saw Rosie.

“No, not my little bug!” Rosie grinned and reached out for him immediately, locking her small legs around his frame as he sat her down on his waist. She wiped her little hand against his face, still wet from outside and giggled, obviously entertained by the state both of her parents were in.

John smiled fondly and leaned against the staircase, folding his arms across his chest and cocking his head to the side to watch them. “You know, if Rosie catches a cold it’s nothing. It’s Sherlock we have to worry about; whiny, whiny, whiny.” He smirked, quickly looking away as Sherlock turned abruptly to face him, getting slightly louder. “Such a drama queen; he’d be on the couch for days, demanding tea and blankets every few minutes.” John finally met his eyes, grinning at the sight of the detective’s slightly red cheeks and narrowed eyes.

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock huffed a bit, crossing the room and leaning forward slightly, their noses nearly brushing against one another.

“You forgot the part where I complain about the telly being complete shit all day long.” John grinned, shaking his head as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead and strode around him, making his way up the stairs and already conversing with Rosie at his side about something.

Mrs. Hudson sighed fondly, leaning against the doorway to her kitchen. “John, I’m telling you I’ve never seen him this happy in my life. It’s absolutely wonderful,” she beamed, and John fought back another grin, feeling his own cheeks heat up.

“Yeah, well...I’ve never been this happy, either,” he responded simply, giving her a soft smile before retracing Sherlock’s footsteps and trekking up the stairs.

The rain showed no intent of stopping, and when John reached the second floor he spotted Sherlock and his daughter peering out the window, one of his large hands holding the lace curtain back for them to look out of.

“Ah, I’m sorry bug...celebration dinner will have to be postponed again…” Rosie was unaffected by his words, instead reaching out and pressing her hands against the cool glass in order to see better. Sherlock tilted his body awkwardly to somewhat face John as he walked into the room, shutting the door. “Why doesn’t London want us going out?”

John grinned fondly at his offended tone, shrugging a bit and crossing the flat as he spoke. “Dunno...I’m sure it’ll clear up by tomorrow, though…” He slid his arms instinctively around Sherlock’s waist, resting his head against his back for a moment. “Did you get any more info from Lestrade?”

Sherlock smirked, flashing him a smug look. “Of course I did. Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?” John grinned, slowly letting him go as Sherlock leaned forward to set Rosie down on the ground, who happily made a beeline for her toys that littered the couch on the other side of the room. John watched happily as his boyfriend flopped down in his chair, crossing his legs like he always did and pulled out his phone, scrolling through it quickly with his thumb and waving John over impatiently. “I need your help with some pictures…”

John rolled his eyes and walked over, grabbing a folded towel that was sitting on the edge of their couch as he did. “You know you’re still soaking wet.” He threw the towel towards the detective, fighting back a giggle as it hit him in the face and made him jump.

“It’s just water!” he huffed loudly, grabbing it nevertheless and wiping his face off with one hand, handing John his phone with the other. John smiled fondly, taking it and falling to sit in his seat, glancing over at Rosie before back to Sherlock, admiring the way he dried himself off like a child. He shook his hair out a bit before running the blue towel over it, wiping it across his neck chest. He dropped the towel in his lap and shrugged off his jacket, his dark purple button up sticking to his skin like paint. John was pretty sure he would’ve sat there admiring him forever had he not been interrupted by Sherlock’s loud, slightly agitated voice.

“What do you think of them, John?” John blinked rapidly, suddenly remembering the phone in his hand before he cleared his throat loudly, leaning back against his chair.

“Right...the pictures...” His voice faltered as he looked at them, squinting his eyes slightly as he concentrated. Sherlock wasn’t paying much attention; he threw his towel to the floor as he finished and looked down to Rosie, who was trying her hardest to climb into his lap, sucking loudly on her pacifier.

John looked up slowly, blinking a bit as he watched his boyfriend lift their daughter into his lap, bouncing her on his knee as he looked up and met his eyes. “John?” He raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully. “Well? What do you think?”

And really, truth be told John had already formulated 3 possible scenarios that could’ve resulted in this particular crime scene, but despite the fact that he was more than likely going to be wrong he began to speak anyway, knowing Sherlock was going to listen to him regardless.

That’s how things were now; solving cases, taking care of Rosie, going to bed with each other every single night. And that’s how things were going to be for the rest of their lives, as far as John was concerned. They’d already gone through enough shit together to last a thousand lifetimes; there wasn’t going to be anymore.

John realized later on that he should’ve known that night that things were going to end soon. They couldn’t keep this up forever; there were too many demons after them, too many skeletons in too many closets and it was all just a matter of time.

He had a nightmare that night; first one in months. It was strange and didn’t make much sense so he hadn’t thought it important. He’d awoken with a loud gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he slowly blinked into the darkness, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He turned on his side slowly, reaching out across the bed to touch Sherlock’s still sleeping figure, his hand resting delicately upon his frame before he sighed, flopping back down against the mattress. Sherlock remained fast asleep, his naked body wrapped in their white sheets and his face halfway buried into his pillow.

John turned on his side after bringing his heart rate back down, facing him and watching him sleepily. He reached out, gently pushing a curl from out of his eye, smiling faintly when he could feel it was still damp from the rain.

It took him awhile to fall back asleep. He hadn’t been able to remember much of the dream at all, save for one thing that kept bouncing around his mind as he watched his boyfriend snore, running his fingertips along the top of his pale arm.

Sherlock’s voice on a loop, the only noise he could recall from his nightmare;

“I’m sorry, John! I’m so, so sorry!”

The week went on normally; they managed to solve yet another case before the weekend hit, and as a sort of reward the sun finally came out in London, the dreary weather finally coming to an end by the time Friday night rolled around. Sherlock had immediately jumped on the opportunity to finally go out to dinner for Rosie, and the three of them found themselves at a small diner on the other side of London that evening, the hustle and bustle of people constantly filtering in and out giving them a nice sense of privacy in their secluded booth in the back corner.

“I think Rosie has enjoyed this meal the most out of any of us,” Sherlock declared, looking down at the infant in his lap, her lips coated with bright red ketchup as she opened her mouth and threw her head back, demanding another chip from her father. John smirked, watching amusedly as Sherlock picked up another piece from his plate and fed it to her, grinning as she leaned against his chest in pure bliss, chewing in silence.

“I think you’re right…” John shifted his empty plate towards the side, finishing off his drink as Sherlock began to wipe Rosie’s face off with a napkin, looking up as their waitress walked back over to check on them, a bubbly girl of about 17 with blonde curls falling down her shoulders and bright blue eyes.

“Everything turn out well?” she asked cheerfully as the two of them nodded, gathering their plates up. Rosie reached her arms out towards John, eyes already droopy with sleep and Sherlock handed her over across the table, looking up as she stacked the plates.

“It was lovely; can we have the check, please?” Rosie climbed up against John’s chest, resting her head against his neck sleepily as their waitress smiled.

“Oh, it’s been paid for already.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John sat up a bit, looking slightly shocked.

“By whom?” He shifted Rosie to his other arm, blinking as the girl looked around the crowded restaurant, frowning a bit.

“Hm, I think he left already…he was a real gentlemen, sat at the bar over there and insisted he pay for your meal.” Sherlock blinked slowly, narrowing his eyes slightly in confusion.

“Right…” He glanced over at John and shrugged a bit, leaning back against his seat in the booth. John scanned his face carefully, then looked up as their waitress suddenly reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a piece of paper.

“Nearly forgot, he left you this!” It was a folded up receipt paper, slightly crumbled and she held it out to towards Sherlock. “Told me to give it to you, dunno what’s on it.” Sherlock stared at her for a moment, the uneasiness growing in his eyes before he finally took it from her, watching her walk off with their stack of plates.

John sat up immediately, keeping one arm around Rosie’s now sleeping frame as he leaned against the table.

“Well, open it!” The paper seemed strangely tiny in Sherlock’s large hands, and for a moment he simply stared at it. His face was stoic and John wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. Sherlock wasn’t used to people doing kind things for him, maybe he was feeling a bit weird about the whole thing. John had to admit, it was a bit strange but nonetheless cute. He watched silently as Sherlock pried the paper open with his forefinger and thumb, and he swore he just about threw up his entire dinner as he watched the detective’s face crumble completely.

“Sherlock?” His hands were shaking now, John could definitely tell, and he watched with his heart pounding against his chest as he stared at the note for a moment, crumbling it in his trembling fist before he dropped it on the table like it had suddenly burned his skin.

“Sherlock?!” John jumped as Sherlock suddenly stood up, shoving the table forward slightly and nearly ran out of the diner doors, bumping into various people on the way out. Rosie awoke with a start against John’s chest, lifting her head up in sleepy confusion as John lurched forward and grabbed the paper, opening it with his free hand.

‘Lovely family. When are you going to invite me over for tea? -JM’

John felt nauseous; his head was spinning and he read the note 10 more times, his eyes scanning the words over and over again. Rosie was fidgeting against his arm now, obviously unhappy that she’d been awoken and whimpering slightly. John looked up suddenly, shoving the receipt into his pocket before jumping up and making a beeline for the doors, mumbling out sporadic apologies as he took no notice of the people around him.

The warm London air hit him like a train as soon as he stepped out of the doors, humid and muggy from the rain that had just passed. He looked around wildly, trying to spot his boyfriend’s mop of dark curls as Rosie clung onto his shirt with her hand, silent.

“Sherlock?” All he got in return were a few weird glances from passersby on the street, and he could feel the panic begin to rise within him like a fire.

He set off in the direction towards Baker Street; despite being across the city, Sherlock always took the path closest to his home whether he was conscious of it or not. Rosie rested her head on her father’s shoulder, letting this charade play out and kept quiet, gazing out into the streets as John paced about.

He took a sharp turn at one of the street corners and nearly collided with the detective’s chest, gasping as he stopped himself in time. “Sherlock!”

City lights have a tendency to wash people out, especially at night. John hadn’t really noticed this before; maybe because he didn’t pay attention, maybe because he just didn’t care. But seeing Sherlock now...there was no question in the matter.

His pale skin seemed almost sinewy, stretched across his face like some sort of anguished mask you’d find in a play. His eyes were full of fear, their usual dim sparkle absent completely. The constant passing of car lights and billboard neons danced across his face in an almost demeaning fashion, and all he could do was blink at John in return, his mouth opening and closing helplessly.

He wasn’t sure he’d seen him this lost for words in his life.

John tightened his hold on Rosie instinctively, taking a step forward and grabbing ahold of his arm. He quickly pulled him towards the edge of the sidewalk they were on, stepping halfway into the darkened alley in between two shops. People began to pass them without a second glance.

He dropped his grip almost reluctantly, feeling his boyfriend’s blatant fear rolling off of him like waves from a hurricane. For a moment he kept his mouth shut, not quite sure what to say.

Sherlock was fidgeting now, clenching and unclenching one of his large hands in front of him, his other arm wrapped around his waist like some sort of shield. He avoided John’s eyes completely, opting for a particular spot on the concrete below them instead.

After a moment, John sighed heavily, simply for the sake of breaking the silence. He shifted Rosie gently on his side, chewing on his lip for a second before opening his mouth.

“He’s...he’s dead. That note…” He shook his head slowly, swallowing thickly before continuing. “It has to be a fake. It’s...it’s gotta be something to scare us. Throw us off, or something.”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed before he even finished speaking, looking possibly even paler than he did before. “John…” His voice was soft but rough sounding; he cleared his throat and his eyes flew open suddenly, meeting John’s eyes with such ferocity that it made him shiver slightly.

“That was his handwriting, I know it.” His voice was short and John’s stomach sank horribly, the nauseous feeling taking over once more. He stared intensely at the detective for a moment, as if trying to read what he was thinking but God knows that was impossible. Sherlock kept his guard up, his lips pressed together in a grim sort of way as John struggled for words.

“He could’ve written it before. Set this all up, you know how he is…” John was shocked at how desperate his voice sounded, fighting to make sense of everything that had just happened. The paper felt heavy in his pocket; he wanted nothing more than to rip it to shreds but knew it wouldn’t do any good for the pair.

Sherlock had opted for shoving his hands into his coat pockets, staring absentmindedly at something above John’s head, blinking slowly.

“I know what I saw on that rooftop, and it was inexplicably M-...” He frowned a bit, swallowing thickly before refraining from using his name. “...inexplicably his suicide. But things can be faked...we know this.” He scanned John’s face incredulously for a moment before looking back up at nothing, sighing shakily. “John...I can’t stand this.”

John looked up suddenly, frowning at the sudden shift of his voice. It was close to cracking, had gone up to a weird octave and sounded dangerously close to crying.

“Sherlock…” His voice faltered as he watched the detective’s hands go up to his face, rubbing against his eyes for some sort of salvation or relief. He fell silent, shifting Rosie to his other hip as Sherlock inhaled deeply, staying still for a moment before dropping his hands back down suddenly, meeting John’s gaze with a pained face.

“I can’t stand thinking that he might’ve been in that diner, watching us eat, watching us talk and watching…” He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping downward in what seemed like defeat. “Watching Rosie…”

John shook his head quickly, taking a step forward. “Sherlock, shut up. Stop talking, stop thinking for a moment, okay?” Sherlock stared miserably at him, his arms hanging limply at his sides as John struggled to find words.

He was right, of course. It was the worst feeling in the world; thinking your loved ones weren’t safe. He opened and closed his mouth once, letting out a soft sigh before gently lifting Rosie off of his hip, holding her out towards his boyfriend.

“Take her.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion but nevertheless scrambled to grab her, pulling her close to his chest. She sighed in sleepy contentment, immediately resting her head against his shoulder as he slid one arm beneath her for support, the other on her back.

“What for?” he asked quietly, rubbing at her back absentmindedly to keep her asleep.

John shrugged slightly, shifting on his feet. “You don’t panic when you’re with her. She helps calm you down.” Sherlock blinked, nodding slowly before looking down at the still sleeping infant, pushing a lock of her hair out of her face. John could tell his panic was subsiding away; his motions were more soft and gentle, his breathing had slowed down some. He simply watched them for a minute, crossing his arms over his chest in some sort of attempt to hide his nervousness.

Sherlock looked up after awhile, meeting John’s eyes with a new expression, one of vacancy and weariness.

“Let’s go home,” he stated simply, and all John could do was nod in response.

Normally, Sherlock would’ve opted to the the long way back and walk, but he insisted on a cab ride back to Baker Street. He didn’t say it out loud, but it didn’t take much to realise that he inexplicably felt safer and more out of Moriarty’s reach in the protective shelter of a car, rather than out in the open in the streets. He was silent the entire ride back home, something absolutely unheard of in John’s history with the man.

John kept a close eye on him, though. Every few seconds he was turning his head to gaze at his boyfriend without even realising it, and Sherlock made no comments. He simply kept one arm wrapped around Rosie’s small body, keeping her asleep against his chest while his other hand absentmindedly stroked her blonde curls, his gaze fixated on the passing buildings outside.

When they got home, Sherlock immediately made a beeline for Rosie’s bedroom upstairs, mumbling something about taking care of her bedtime routine tonight. John merely sighed, watching him go before flopping down onto the couch in the living room, digging in his pocket and pulling out the now wrinkled receipt.

He had to admit, it didn’t make much sense. From the way Sherlock had described the suicide, there wasn’t really any possible way he could’ve survived it. John ran his fingers along the now slightly smudged writing on the paper, frowning to himself as he struggled to come to terms with it all.

His mind wandered off and he didn’t realise Sherlock had reentered the room a few minutes later until his voice broke the silence.

“Please don’t think I’m crazy for this, John.”

John looked up immediately, his frown deepening as he sat up slowly. “I never said that,” he replied slowly, watching as the detective crossed the room to sit on his other side, his feet dragging slightly against the wood floor.

“I know you didn’t, but...you have that look on your face. The one that means you don’t believe it.” John tried his best to ignore the way his chest suddenly ached, taking in his boyfriend’s slouched profile and somber tone.

“You know there’s a lot of things I had my doubts about before, and they ended up being true,” he replied, turning his body slightly to face him head on. “But, Sherlock...I do believe you. I don’t know why and I don’t know how this happened, but...I promise I believe you. You’re not crazy.” He set the crumpled receipt down on the coffee table, reaching out to grab ahold of his hand. “Whatever this means, whatever chain of events this is going to set off...it’ll be okay. We can handle it, we always do.”

Sherlock had remained silent throughout John’s little speech, not even reacting when his hand was grabbed onto. He lifted his head up after John had finished, squinting his blue eyes slightly at him.

“This is different, John. Before, when he wanted to mess with me, you were my pressure point. Just you, and he knew that. That’s why he kept using you, to get to me. But now...now, I have two.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to hide it. He blinked a few times, turning his head away and breaking the gaze in fear of letting his emotions break free for John to see. “This is completely different.”

For a moment, John let that sink in. He was right, of course; he was always fucking right. He sucked in a breath, keeping his grip on the detective’s hand, struggling for words.

“Look…” he began slowly, hoping silently to himself that he’d make sense as he spoke. “We know how he is. He’s a drama queen, he likes to drag things out and make us run around in circles. But you’re SMART, Sherlock. You can figure out what’s he’s going to do, you’ve done it before. He’s not difficult, he’s just arrogant.” Sherlock kept quiet, his expression strangely vacant but John could tell he was still listening nevertheless.

“Dragging Rosie into this is just him trying to set you off. You and I both know that she’s never out of our sights, there’s no way he can get to her. I’m sure your brother will bump up the security around here for us if you just ask.” Sherlock hummed at that, tilting his head down to look at their hands before replying.

“I never wanted Rosie involved with any of this. I thought we were DONE after Sherrinford, after Eurus and after...him.” He shook his head slowly, swallowing a bit. “We were just supposed to solve cases, John. Solve cases and come home every night to your daughter and repeat.”

“OUR daughter,” John corrected immediately, deciding against lecturing him for what seemed like the thousandth time that Rosie was just as much his child as John’s own. “In case you haven’t noticed, Sherlock; things rarely go the way we want them to. We’re like magnets for bad luck.” When the detective remained silent once more, John sighed and opted to scoot himself over, his thigh pressing against Sherlock’s own before he leaned his head to rest against his arm, running his thumb gently along his hand.

“Just stop blaming yourself for this, because I know you are. This isn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened. You and I are more than capable of handling it, and I promise it’s going to be okay.” John wondered idly to himself if that entire speech made more sense in his head than it did out loud but remained quiet, focusing on the way his head slowly rose and fell with Sherlock’s breathing.

Relief washed over him a couple minutes later as the detective’s head came to rest on top of his own, feeling a squeeze back against his hand. John smiled despite everything when he felt Sherlock’s lips press against his temple, his breath warm against his face.

“Thank you, John…” he murmured softly, and for once his voice sounded genuine. John was very thankful.

In the weeks that followed, nothing else involving Moriarty happened. John had expected it; he had drug out his past schemes for months on end before, this wasn’t going to be any different. Personally, John found himself wondering if the note had really been a fake after all, but the way Sherlock constantly carried himself now always brought him back to his senses. He had a new sort of air to him, one of constant alertness as if ready to attack at any moment and frankly, it exhausted John just to watch. Sherlock had been reluctant on going out in public with Rosie as much as they had before, but John argued that retreating further and further into Baker Street would just raise suspicions and attract more attention. So now, every time they went out John felt like he was walking with a bodyguard.

It took it’s toll on Sherlock after a few weeks; John found him curled up in their bed earlier and earlier each night, turning down more and more cases as the sheer exhaustion from all his worrying took over him like a disease. One night John retreated into their bedroom to find him curled up on his side in the middle of the mattress, struggling to keep his eyes open after putting Rosie down to sleep around 8. He climbed into the bed carefully, trying not to move it too much before snaking his arms around his boyfriend’s waist from behind, resting his forehead against his back.

“Stop this, Sherlock,” he murmured softly into his skin, knowing his voice would still be heard through the deafening silence. “Don’t worry yourself sick like this, please…”

Sherlock sighed in response, the noise getting lost in the blankets but John could feel his back rise and fall as he breathed. “I can’t help it,” he said shortly, bringing his hands up to his face to rub his eyes tiredly. “I can’t help any of this, that’s the problem.”

John heard this same speech almost daily; he knew no matter what he said or did, Sherlock was always going to blame himself for this. John remained silent in response, just feeling Sherlock’s back rise and fall rhythmically.

“Don’t let him win, Sherlock.”

There was an odd silence that filled the room then, and for a few moments all John could hear was the sound of their AC running and the occasional crackle of Rosie’s monitor. He remained silent as he felt Sherlock move his hands down from his face, gently sliding them beneath John’s own that were still wrapped around the front of his stomach.  
John smiled into his boyfriend’s shirt as he felt Sherlock’s lips press a gentle kiss onto his knuckles, feeling him sigh softly.

“I won’t, John. You know I won’t.”

In time, it ended up being a good 3 months since the note incident. John watched Sherlock slowly begin to lose his sense of paranoia, taking on cases again and distracting himself. It was easy to forget even the scariest of things when you kept yourself busy enough, and John was thankful. The two of them were beginning to forget the note gathering dust in their desk drawer in the living room completely, and John almost forgot about the entire thing.

Almost.

John and Sherlock had both agreed early on that they’d never take Rosie out on a case. It wasn’t right for her to see the things they saw on a daily basis, wasn’t right to expose her to their uncanny way of life at such a young age. One day she’d learn, but now wasn’t the time. Being nearly 2 years old, Rosie was now very observant and talkative, pointing and asking about things she really shouldn’t be. John swears she got that from Sherlock.

They were forced to take her out, however, when Molly ended up working last minute and Mrs. Hudson was out of town. Despite their attitudes towards the letter situation, neither of them really trusted Rosie with anyone else, and John found himself dressing his daughter on their kitchen counter on a Sunday morning, while his boyfriend held out a bowl of cut up fruit towards her, looking sour.

“Mrs. Hudson really should tell us when she’s leaving.” John rolled his eyes, sliding a shirt over Rosie’s head as she reached impatiently towards the bowl, grabbing a strawberry and shoving it happily into her mouth.

“She doesn’t have to tell us anything, Sherlock. Besides, all we’re doing today is walking around London. Greg gave you a profile, right?” Sherlock nodded, still looking displeased as John finished dressing Rosie. She immediately pushed herself towards Sherlock, crawling across the counter with loud giggles and he finally cracked a grin, setting her bowl down and lifting her up with one arm.

“You’ve got quite a colorful mouth there, bug.” Rosie flashed him a pink grin, the remnants of her strawberry breakfast still stuck in her teeth. John watched quietly, leaning against the edge of the counter as Sherlock wiped off her mouth, handing her her sippy cup full of water to drink before meeting his eyes again. “Technically, we’re not breaking our rule because it’s not really a CASE case. We’re just...observing someone who might be potentially suspicious.” John smirked at that, shaking his head.

“I love your reasoning there,” he remarked, his grin widening as Sherlock crossed the room, shifting Rosie to his hip before leaning down to press a kiss to his lips.

“And I love you,” he stated simply, smiling when John’s cheeks began to heat up.

John can’t really remember the details of the case now; something about a woman believing her dead brother was harassing people on the streets of London. Sherlock hadn’t particularly liked the case, but John had insisted it was just what they needed, as things had been a bit boring for a couple weeks. After giving her description to Scotland Yard, Greg had asked the two of them to scope out the streets of London for a sign of him, not drawing any attention, just to see if the woman was right.

John found them wandering around Trafalgar Square a couple hours later, a bit bored after finding absolutely nothing helpful. There was too many people around for John to keep up with, but Sherlock had no problem watching them all. When John observed yet another dismayed look on his boyfriend’s face he finally decided to lead them towards a bench on the outskirts of the area, sitting down with a loud sigh.

“Maybe she’s lying,” John remarked out loud, looking around the square once more. Rosie had been attached to Sherlock’s hip all day and was now struggling to break free from his grasp, eyeing a group of toddlers parading around in a splash pad at a park a few feet away. Sherlock looked a bit conflicted at first, keeping her firmly on his lap but his features softened slightly as John reached over and pulled off her sandals, smiling at her.

“Stay right there bug, okay? Make sure you can always see me and Papa.” Rosie nodded eagerly, already wriggling her way out of Sherlock’s grasp.

“Okay Daddy!” As soon as her feet touched the pavement she was running off, already giggling excitedly at the prospect of playing with other kids.

John grinned as her and another little boy began splashing happily at one of the fountains before turning to Sherlock, setting the sandals down in between them.

“What are we going to do about this case?” he mused. Sherlock didn’t seem to register at first; he was all eyes for Rosie for a few seconds before blinking, turning back to face him and sighing.

“I don’t know. I never wanted it in the first place.” John rolled his eyes, glancing back at Rosie before responding.

“How many times have I convinced you to take a case that turned out to be amazing?” Sherlock stared pointedly at the sky in a childish sort of way, refusing to meet his eyes.  
“Doesn’t matter. This one still sucks. That woman’s probably on drugs.” John smiled a bit, shaking his head in disagreement.

“Not necessarily; maybe it’s grief. I saw Mary all the time after she died, and I wasn’t on any drugs.” Sherlock’s face hardened at that, bringing his head down slowly. John shrugged, reaching out to hold onto his knee.

“I saw you, too. Constantly.” Sherlock turned his head to look at him directly, his lips turned down into a slight frown.

“You never told me that.” He sounded surprised, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would ever hallucinate about him. John nodded, still smiling.

“Mhmm. Couldn’t get rid of you, really.. Popped up all the time, muttering smart comments and sarcastic remarks. Was a bit bloody annoying, actually.” Sherlock cracked a smile at that, although it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I suppose it’s comforting to know I will be remembered as that rude asshole of a detective after I die,” he mused, breaking eye contact and glancing over to check on Rosie. John studied his profile for a moment, taking in his set jaw and slight frown upon his lips. He turned to face the splash pad once more, watching Rosie dart around in her bright yellow shirt.

“Well, yes, some people might remember you in that way.” He pulled his hand back into his lap, staring fixedly at nothing in particular. “I, for one, will remember you as the man who single handedly changed my life for the better.”

If Sherlock had something sentimental to respond with in that moment, John never heard it.

There was a sudden, blood curdling scream directly behind their bench, and they whipped their heads around instantly, as did majority of the people there. John craned his neck, peering over the tops of heads to see as they both stood up. He saw a sudden lurch in the crowd, all of them gravitating towards a large building on the left. Sherlock stepped forward immediately, already weaving himself in between people before calling back behind him.

“Grab Rosie, and come on!” John blinked, still processing the entire situation before he turned back to the park, immediately making a beeline for Rosie.

“Come on, love…” He elbowed his way through the rest of the parents gathering their children up, muttering rushed apologies as he struggled to find his boyfriend once more. Rosie kept a cold, wet grip around his neck, her hair dripping slightly onto John’s shirt.

“Where’s Papa?” she asked worriedly, resting her chin on his shoulder as she looked around. John rubbed her back in response, making his way towards the front of the building.

“We’re going to find him right now, bug…” he murmured, turning a corner suddenly.

He spotted Sherlock immediately, standing by himself in front of the building’s wall. There was a crowd of people gathered behind and around him, although they all kept their distance. John immediately crossed over to his side, trying to ignore the way everyone was mumbling and whispering around him, pointing towards the grey bricked wall.

“Sherlock, w-” He stopped short, taking in the way his boyfriend’s face had lost all trace of color. He stared stoically at the wall in front of him, his hands hanging limply from his sides. Rosie began tugging rapidly onto John’s sleeve, pointing towards the bottom of the building.

“Daddy, look…” Her voice sounded oddly close to tears and John turned his head, his stomach sinking as soon as he saw it.

He quickly took Rosie’s face and pushed it to rest against his neck, begging her to shut her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him once more, refusing to lift her head up again as he finally turned to face it head on.

There was a man; more specifically, his body lying on top of the light colored pavement. His head was facing the ground, his face slightly smushed against it. There was a particularly large amount of blood surrounding him, which seemed a bit odd in John's eyes. He'd been to a scene like this...there wasn't that much blood before. It didn't add up. 

But, of course, that wasn’t all of it.

Spelled out in strangely archaic handwriting, taking up the entirety of the building’s side, was a note, still shiny with the indiscernible consistency of fresh blood;

‘I will die, and leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.’

John glanced around quickly at the crowd for a moment, taking in their hushed whispers and stunned silence before he took another step towards his partner.

“Sherlock, please,” he begged in a hushed tone, still rubbing Rosie’s back as if that would help anything. “Say something.”

Sherlock remained silent, his hands shoved into his coat pockets as he simply stared up at the wall, scanning it with his light colored eyes. John sighed, shoulders slumping slightly as he took a step back, listening to the faint wailing of police sirens in the distance. He could hear the murmurings of people calling the incident a terrorist attack behind him, but he knew as soon as Lestrade took one look at it, he’d know exactly who it was.

The crowds eventually faded, mostly due to the fact that a police blockade was set up and they were all forced out. Rosie was wrapped in one of the bright neon police jackets, dozing off against John’s chest as he spoke quietly to Lestrade about a half hour later.

“We didn’t say anything about the letter because...well, we didn’t want to burden. If he’s really back, all he’s after is us. And it’s been a good three months since we got it…” Greg scoffed, shaking his head in response.

“That and your stubborn boyfriend would never come to Scotland Yard for help.” John made a face in response, the two of them exchanging a look of agreement before he nodded.

“That too.” He turned his head to face Sherlock once more, his frown deepening. He still hadn’t said a single word and it was getting to be very concerning. John watched as he swayed slightly on his spot on the sidewalk, still gazing up at the building with a strange sort of frown on his face. After a moment, he turned slowly on his heel and walked up to John and Greg, finally meeting their eyes for the first time. John was startled at how lost they looked, blinking rapidly as Sherlock opened and closed his mouth once, as if deciding on whether to speak at all before words began to fall out.

“The quote is from Romeo and Juliet. Act 4, scene 5.” There was a strange sort of pause then, the words seeming to hang thick and heavy in the air for a moment, Sherlock’s eyes flickered up to meet John’s, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed. “The scene where Juliet is found dead in her bedroom.”

John pursed his lips slightly, staring him down for a moment before nodding once. “How dramatic of him,” he replied smoothly.

Sherlock kept quiet, staring at him for a second more before breaking eye contact and turning to Lestrade. “I need to get upstairs with the body. Get John and Rosie a cab home, will you?”

John frowned immediately, reaching out to grab his arm in protest. “Sherlock, no!” He felt slightly hurt at the fact that his boyfriend had already begun turning and stalking towards the doors, but ignored it for the time being. “I’m staying to help!”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, pulling his arm from his grip. “No, you’re not. Someone has to take Rosie home, and this doesn’t involve you.” His voice was short and to the point, cutting John like a knife. He was stunned momentarily, barely giving the words time to sink in before he was barreling on again.

“Sherlock, please. I’m not going to leave you here alone-” Sherlock turned around suddenly, his jaw set in a rigid line and glaring daggers at his partner.

“You’re going to do EXACTLY that!” he spat out loudly, and John froze in place. The commotion of officers milling in and out of the building slowly came to a pause, and he could see Lestrade suddenly straighten up in his spot. “You’re going to get a cab and go home with your daughter and lock the doors and not think about me. This is NOT about you, either of you. It’s about me and this monster of a man and I’m going to finish what we started.” His voice had taken on a deep, almost menacing tone, one John hadn’t heard before. His grip on Rosie had tightened instinctively, praying to someone or something above that she wasn’t awake. He cleared his throat once, trying not to suffocate under all of the tension that was suddenly between them.

“Fine,” he replied simply, still staring him down. “But if you need any help-” John jumped slightly at Sherlock’s sudden loud groaning noise, raising his eyebrows as Sherlock shook his head quickly, his curls bobbing in the air.

“John, stop! Just stop, okay?! I don’t need your help, and I don’t WANT your help! Now go home!” For a moment, John couldn’t say anything. He felt Rosie stir against his chest, bringing her hands up to cover her small ears but he remained silent. Sherlock kept glaring at him, his chest rising and falling quickly before he turned swiftly on his feel, yanking his coat closed over his body before pushing open the building doors, storming inside.

John could feel every pair of eyes fall on him at once, and he immediately tilted his head down, reaching up to stroke Rosie’s hair. “I’m sorry, bug…” he murmured quietly, pulling her hands from her ears. “Let’s go home, hm?”

Rosie didn’t say anything in response, merely nodding instead before resting her head back against his collarbone. John looked up, careful not to make eye contact with anyone before picking a random spot in the distance, eager to get a cab and escape the scene. After a few moments he heard Lestrade bark out orders before his footsteps began approaching him rapidly from behind.

“John, look...he’s just scared, that’s why he’s yelling…” John sighed, coming to a stop at a sidewalk on the outskirts of the square before turning to face him.

“It’s not the yelling part. It’s the way he yelled at me. I’ve never seen him like that before.” And it was true. When Sherlock yelled (which was pretty often), it was due to frustration or annoyance, not so much anger. When he and John argued, it was always over something pretty meaningless, something that didn’t matter a few hours later. He’d never taken his fits seriously; Sherlock was a child sometimes. But John still feel the slightly shaky feeling in his limbs, could still feel the way Sherlock’s voice reverberated around in his head, like aftershocks of an earthquake. This wasn’t...normal. It wasn’t him.

All Greg could muster up was a sad look on his face, watching quietly as John hailed down a cab. With one arm still wrapped around Rosie, John opened the door to get inside before turning to face him once more.

“Make sure he’s okay. Please.” Greg nodded quickly in response, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Always do,” he responded quietly, and John gave him another fleeting look before climbing inside and shutting the door. Rosie fidgeted in his arms, whining slightly at being woken up again and John merely rubbed her back, watching the buildings begin to blur out his window as they drove.

It was only around mid afternoon when they got back, and Rosie was due for her nap anyway so John put her to bed, watching her fall asleep for a few minutes before walking back towards the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson had appeared in a small amount of time it had taken him to get inside and get situated and was watching him with a worried look in the doorway, wringing her hands.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she asked quietly, and John wrinkled his nose a bit.

“Still...out. I’m sure you saw what happened, all over the news.” Mrs. Hudson merely hummed in response, her frown seeming to deepen slightly. John crossed the room, fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt before taking a seat on the couch, leaning back against the pillows. For a moment, a tense sort of silence filled the room. John could feel the landlady’s eyes resting upon him, as if urging him to elaborate on the subject, but he kept his mouth shut. He stared absentmindedly at a spot on the floor, scuff marks from shoes covering the wood, and tried to get Sherlock’s voice to stop bouncing around in his head. It had started to rain outside because, of course, why wouldn’t it? He lifted his head up and met Mrs. Hudson’s eyes, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“He’ll be back soon.” Well…at least, he hoped so.

Mrs. Hudson finally let him be, and John found himself dozing off in his chair. When he woke up to the sound of Rosie’s whining over the baby monitor, the sun was nearly done setting outside. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he trudged upstairs and scooped her out of bed, taking her back down.

With each passing hour, John could feel the worry build up more and more within his chest. Rosie entertained herself with her toys, then began eyeing the kitchen and John realized it was past dinnertime. It felt weird, not having Sherlock feeding her in her high chair, not having his constant chatter and laughter as Rosie made a mess. John found himself glancing towards the living room more and more often, anticipating the sound of the door opening though it never did.

When dinner was done, it was time for a bath. After a bath, storytime.

By the time 9 o’clock rolled around, John was a nervous wreck. He’d sent 12 text messages, called him at least 10 times, and STILL no reply. Rosie’s eyes were heavy with sleep as John got her dressed for bed, already planning on calling Lestrade.

“I want Papa…” John’s heart clenched painfully at his daughter’s sleepy words, glancing down at her relaxed frame amongst her pillows and blankets.

“Papa’s busy, I’m sure he’s sorry he wasn’t here to tuck you in…” John murmured in response, fixing part of her shirt gently. Rosie merely blinked up at him, rolling her legs around slightly.

“Okay, Daddy…” She yawned softly, her eyes fluttering shut almost immediately. She rested her small arms on either side of her head, her face falling to rest on its side. John backed up slowly, careful not to make any noise before tiptoeing from the room, shutting the door behind him.

He had his phone out the moment he set off down the stairs, dialing Greg’s number before he reached the bottom.

“John?” His voice was groggy and full of sleep and suddenly John’s stomach plummeted somewhere towards the bottom of his shoes. He wasn’t at the scene any more.

“Greg...have you heard from Sherlock?” He tried desperately to keep the hysteria from his voice but apparently it came through anyway, as he heard Greg stir on the other line, his voice suddenly becoming very much awake.

“No...we left the scene hours ago, agreed to come back in the morning. He left then, didn’t say where he was going but I figured it was back home…” John’s heart was beginning to pound in his ears, the hot whips of panic hitting him full force now. Greg’s voice sounded strangely muted, like he was underwater or something.

“John…” There was a faint rustling on the other end of the line, as if he were sitting up in bed and John felt bile begin to build up in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling a deep breath before clearing his throat slightly.

“Greg...he hasn’t replied to me all day. I know how he gets, I figured he was just being his usual moody self, but now it’s late and if you haven’t heard from him…” His voice faltered off, his mind racing through all of the potential places in London he might be in.

“Look, I can send people out right now. It’s not a problem.” Greg seemed much more awake now, his own worry beginning to creep into his voice. John swallowed thickly, his stomach churning at the sheer thought of a police team having to go out and find his boyfriend.

“Let me call Mycroft first. He’s supposed to have a watch on him all the time...maybe he knows,” he breathed out slowly, rubbing his eyes. He supposed it made him feel slightly better; if something serious had happened to his little brother, John was pretty sure Mycroft would inform John. Then again...this WAS Mycroft he was thinking about.

“Alright, that works. Just let me know what he says immediately, I’ll get a team on standby just in case.” John nodded slowly, then remembered Greg couldn’t see him before humming in response.

“Yeah, alright. Thank you.” He hung up immediately, his fingers already ready to dial Mycroft’s number when he heard the loud swinging of a door opening downstairs, the knob making loud contact with the wall. He froze up, looking towards his flat door before he heard the creaking of the main door being shut downstairs. He heard footsteps next, some of them heavier than the others, as well as a groggy mumbling noise that got consistently louder as the person reached the top of the stairs. John got up quickly, still clutching his phone in his hand before he lunged for the door, swinging it open just in time to see who it was.

John had seen Sherlock in many ways, shapes and forms before. He had seen him on his good days, and a lot more on his bad ones. He felt as if he’d seen pretty much every side of this man that he loved, that he cared so deeply for. But the way Sherlock greeted him at the door that night was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, in...well, anyone.

Sherlock’s usually light grey and cerulean eyes weren’t twinkling as they usually did. It was as if someone had snuffed them out like old candles, and all that was left was the smoky aftermath. His fair complexion had turned a sickly pale color, his cheeks absent of the usual warm, pink blush. His face seemed sunken in, his high cheekbones sharp and white against the dark lighting in the hallway behind him.

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, although John felt that Sherlock wasn’t really looking at him at all. His coat was hanging off his shoulders, his dark button up shirt wrinkled and halfway tucked into his pants. His large hands were placed on either side of the doorway to steady himself, as his tall frame was swaying slightly in front of him. He blinked slowly down at John, frowning slightly and looking confused, as if wondering how he had gotten there in the first place.

John was suddenly aware of how tightly he was clenching his phone. It was obvious what he had gone out and done; the way he kept wrinkling and sniffing his nose told him enough. John sucked in a deep breath, setting his jaw rigidly.

“Why didn’t you come straight home?”

Sherlock blinked at him again, his eyes still foggy before he took a step forward, nearly stumbling and falling. He reached out and grabbed instinctively onto John’s shoulder for support, furrowing his brow slightly. It took all John had in him not to smack his hand away, merely clenching his teeth together as he watched the detective push himself back up to stand, absentmindedly brushing off his wrinkled coat, as if that would change the way he looked.

“Didn’t want to come home,” he replied simply, staring forward into the living room briefly before slowly making his way inside, stepping his way around Rosie’s scattered toys and books. John’s skin tingled uncomfortably from where Sherlock had grabbed him, and he quickly shut the door, probably slamming it a bit too loudly for all of his neighbors before turning on his heel.

“So you went out and got high instead?!” he snapped angrily, tossing his phone down on the couch. Sherlock had collapsed down in his chair, his long legs sprawled out awkwardly over the armrest. He tilted his head slightly upwards to meet John’s gaze, and John swore he saw a flicker of disappointment flash across his eyes, but it very well easily could’ve just been the drugs.

John watched his boyfriend swallow and clear his throat several times. If it wasn’t for the still slightly confused look upon his face, he would’ve believed the man to be coming up with a reply to him. Instead, John figured it was just his brain on overload, struggling to catch up with itself through the haze of drugs.

“I didn’t take that much,” he drawled almost lazily, blinking a few times. John sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes wearily before stalking across the room and grabbing ahold of his arm, yanking the sleeve up.

“Oh, so this constitutes “not that much” now?” he hissed loudly, gesturing to the various fresh needle marks littering his inner arm. Sherlock shot him a nasty look at that, pulling his arm away quickly.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he growled lowly, and John couldn’t help the loud, frustrated groan that escaped his lips then.

“Will you stop saying that?! For God’s sake, Sherlock, WHY doesn’t it concern me?!” Sherlock seemed startled at his sudden change in tone; he winced slightly, meeting John’s gaze once more with a furrowed brow as John barrelled on.

“Since when do I mean absolutely NOTHING to you?! We’re in this together, you and I, we always have been and now you want to act like this because something happened?!” Sherlock gritted his teeth at that, sitting up quickly in his chair.

“It’s not just SOMETHING, John! This isn’t a stupid case! This “something” was what we had planned on never happening, ever again! After Sherrinford, we were supposed to be DONE! And now I’m in the midst of this fucking hellhole that I can’t find my way out of and you and Rosie are both trapped down here with me!” He stood up then, still swaying slightly on his feet but not backing down nevertheless, looming over John with his tall frame. “So yes, you two mean absolutely NOTHING to me if it means that he doesn’t mess with you. I will NOT let him hurt you, do you understand that?!”

John simply stared at him in response, watching the detective’s chest rise and fall rapidly after his finished speech. He clenched his jaw again, scanning his face carefully as he struggled to process his reasoning.

“How can you expect me to sit here and watch him hurt you? Why do you think I can just...let that happen?” John jumped suddenly at Sherlock’s loud groan in response, watching him shake his head quickly and turn around, pacing the room now.

“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do! I’m the one living off of borrowed time, I’m the one who’s addicted to drugs and I’m the one with all of the fucking skeletons in my closet!” His voice was icy and sharp and even colder than when he had yelled at him at the crime scene, and John felt the tension in the room thicken dramatically. Sherlock turned swiftly on his heel then, a look of sheer desperation taking over his face. “You’re the one with the daughter, with the normal career as a doctor and the one with a future, John! It doesn’t matter if I die! It never has mattered!”

John suddenly felt as if his entire body had been thrown into an ice bath, his heart sinking the moment those words left his mouth. He opened his mouth slightly, wanting to respond but all he could process was disbelief. He stared almost stupidly at the detective, watching him rub at his nose nervously before collapsing back into his chair, hanging his head in between his knees as he took a couple shallow, sharp breaths.

And really, this wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he was saying all of this. He had gone off and shot himself up with heroin and done cocaine and them come home in this blind stupor just to tell John he didn’t care if he died soon. It was fucked up and somehow...it still made sense. Sherlock had never thought highly of himself, and he never would. He just wasn’t like that, and John didn’t understand how he hadn’t made this realization earlier.

He broke out of his reverie as Sherlock’s sudden loud, coughing fit began, and John was almost ashamed at how quickly he rushed to his side.

“Sherlock?” He knelt down beside him, watching as he covered his mouth with both of his hands, still coughing loudly. “Hey, just breathe…” He reached out tentatively to touch his arm, jumping back slightly as Sherlock slid off of the chair and onto the hardwood floor, his knees falling heavily against it.

“John…” His breathing was still shallow, his voice thick and scratchy from coughing. John merely stared at him with wide eyes, silent as Sherlock’s large hands found their way to either side of John’s waist. He lifted his head up slowly, his hazy eyes meeting John’s clear ones, and John was startled to see tears in them.

“I love you too much to put you through this again,” he whispered softly, his voice cracking pitifully. John’s chest ached painfully at his words, staring idly at the face of his very high, very sick boyfriend. He knew he should be upset, and he was; Sherlock had promised him after the Sherrinford incident that he’d steer clear of the drugs, and he had kept his promise for over a year now. For him to just throw it all away like this...well, it said something.

Sherlock blinked slowly, a couple stray tears falling down his cheeks and John felt the grips on his waist tighten slightly, as if afraid John was going to get up and leave him. And really, that’s what he wanted to do.

But then again...he knew he couldn’t. He never would.

John slowly lifted his arms up from their resting spots on either side of his legs, placing one on the side of his neck and one on his face, He could feel Sherlock’s pulse, sickeningly quick against his skin and tried his best to ignore it, swallowing thickly.

“And I love you too much to let you go through this alone,” he replied simply. Sherlock’s face crumbled slightly at that, more tears falling down his cheeks and onto John’s thumb. He opened his mouth to protest but John merely shook his head for him to stay quiet.

“I mean it, Sherlock. This may be your fight, and I get that, but I’m not going to sit here and let you take all of this on yourself. It’s you and me until the end, remember? You promised me that.” And it was true; he said it the first time they slept together.

It had been a few months after the Sherrinford incident; they were content and happy, living with Rosie at Baker Street. Things had finally calmed down; they could finally sleep through the night without waking up from nightmares, and cases had begun rolling in once more. It had been raining, and John remembered how they’d been curled up on the couch, watching it pour outside as Rosie slept upstairs. All it had taken was one sideways glance from Sherlock, and the next thing they knew they were stumbling towards the bedroom, John’s legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and his arms around his neck.

He had murmured it to John a couple hours later, after they were breathless and sweaty and tired, wrapped in each other’s grips like tangled blankets, eager to keep their hands on each other.

“Me and you until the end, John…I promise...” he’d murmured breathlessly, his breath hot against John’s neck as he curled into his side, and John swore he’d never feel that feeling of pure love again.

It was almost a slap in the face to think that Sherlock didn’t remember it, but John could see the gears of his mind working slowly, a soft look of realization dawning across his face.

“I remember…” John watched as one of Sherlock’s hands was lifted from his waist, coming to rest against the top of John’s chest, furrowing his brow slightly as if his mind were working overtime. “That was the night you said you loved me…” he breathed softly, and John stiffened up a bit. He nodded slowly, ashamed at how happy he was that Sherlock still remembered that even within his drug induced mind.

“That’s right…” He watched Sherlock’s eyes shut again, his head hanging down almost limply in between their chests, and for a moment he was silent. For a split second John wasn’t sure if he was even breathing; he seemed to become almost motionless. John gently began moving his hands from his neck, debating on whether to speak when a sudden loud, choking sob escaped the detective’s lips and made John nearly jump out of his skin.

“Sherlock-” Another loud gasp, this time accompanied with large hands grabbing ahold of John’s arms, and it seemed to echo throughout the flat. John immediately scrambled to sit up on his knees, shaking his head quickly.

“Sherlock, please, just calm down, breathe for me…” He could feel how shaky Sherlock’s hands were on his arms, despite the fact that he was trying to cling onto them as tightly as possible. His breathing had sped up dramatically, his back rising and falling with his head still arched downward. John swallowed thickly, knowing damn well that Sherlock more than likely wasn’t listening to him, what with the haze his mind was probably in. Instead, John just sat perfectly still, letting things play out on their own instead of trying to fix it himself.

He’d learned fairly quickly that it wasn’t wise to try and calm Sherlock down, in any situation. When he got mad or upset, it was best to just let the storm ride itself out, and be weary of any damage that ensued. John really couldn’t argue much with that; he was the same way when he got upset.

It wasn’t until after Mary’s death, until after they had started living together with Rosie that Mycroft had casually brought up the fact that Sherlock had been prone to panic attacks as a child. It had come as a shock to him because, well...this was Sherlock they were talking about. The always calm, always collected Sherlock Holmes that never let anyone see how emotional he could really get. Sure, he liked to yell and complain and quite literally throw temper tantrums about things at times, but John had never associated the word “panic” with him before.

“He used to have the time as a kid. He probably blames it on me now, but if I remember correctly it was our darling sister who was always provoking them,” Mycroft had mused, and John hadn’t been surprised. If he had suppressed all of the things that Eurus had done to him as a kid, why wouldn’t he forget about the panic attacks too? John remembered asking Mycroft when the last time he’d had one was, and the look of pain that crossed his face, too slow even for John to miss, was something he still remembers to this day.

“The night Mary died. It had been his first one in decades.”

John hadn’t actually experienced Sherlock having an attack yet, but he had dealt with them many times while in the army and understood what was acceptable and what wasn’t. He kept his hands resting at his side, resisting the urge to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, anxiously running his thumbs along his own fingertips. The crying was getting worse, and he knew it, but touching him at all was just going to ruin everything. Instead, he just sat there with his heart in his throat, watching his boyfriend’s head bob up and down with each shaky breath he took, his hands slowly loosening their grip on his arms.

For a moment, John thought he was finally calming down; his breathing steadied and evened out after a few minutes, and his hands had now fallen from John’s arms to rest on either side of his thighs on the hardwood floor below. He stared vacantly at the ground, and John was gathering up the courage to reach out and touch him when Sherlock’s deep, croaky voice echoed out amongst the flat once more.

“I’m so sorry, John…” John swore he felt his heart crack in two, probably audible within the tense silence that accumulated between them.  
“Stop talking,” was all he managed out, and he found himself pushing himself up to stand off the floor, one arm already hooking its way around the detective’s waist. “Let’s get you to bed…”

Sherlock sniffled again, his eyes still fogged over as he lifted his head and blinked at his partner in response, looking dazed but nonetheless following suit. He stumbled and nearly fell on his way up, had he not grabbed onto John’s waist to save himself. The trip down the hall to the bedroom seemed agonizingly slow, with Sherlock seeming to barely remember how to walk, but soon enough John was depositing him in bed.

“You are going to sleep this off, and we will discuss this in the morning,” he remarked bluntly, his voice far too calm to show how angry he actually was. Sherlock Holmes was an absolute dick for doing this to him, for going out and breaking his streak of being sober and then coming to him and crying and it just...it wasn’t fair, and John knew this. He did.  
But when the pale faced, gentle giant of a man he adored so much was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him like this, like a lost child amongst a sea of people...he just couldn’t be mad. Not right now.

Sherlock still looked confused, opening and closing his mouth as if he wanted to say something. John merely turned his head down, doing anything and everything to distract himself from the look on his face. “Did you bring anything home?” he asked quietly, reaching over and gently pulling Sherlock’s coat from his shoulders. He let out a small breath of relief when he saw Sherlock shaking his head in response, moving his arms around slightly so that John could pull it off.

He set his coat down on the chair (after patting his pockets briefly which, thankfully, he found to be completely empty) and moved to kneel down on the floor in front of the detective’s legs, quickly but gently untying and pulling off his shoes.

Sherlock kept absolutely silent, and John could feel his gaze boring holes into the top of his skull. He tried his best to ignore it, pushing his shoes to the side before standing up and grabbing an extra water bottle off the bedside table.

“Drink this, it’ll start flushing the drugs out of your system…” John’s stomach churned at the way his boyfriend’s hands shook as Sherlock reached out and took it, slowly pulling it back to rest in his lap. John sucked in a deep breath, finally making eye contact with him again. “Please, Sherlock.”

There was another tense moment of silence between them, like a staring contest neither of them wanted to lose. John let out a soft sigh after Sherlock broke, tilting his head down to glance at his water before taking his other unsteady hand and attempting to unscrew the cap off. John kept his mouth shut, resisting the urge to yank it from his hands and open it himself.

Once Sherlock finally started to drink, he glanced at the clock next to the bed and sighed softly. “It’s late, you need to sleep…” John was extremely thankful for the way Sherlock refused to speak; he felt his temper beginning to bubble up now that he knew Sherlock was at least okay and not on the verge of passing out or collapsing. He took a step back, watching idly as the man slowly lowered himself into bed, long limbs tangling themselves within the cream colored sheets and comforter, his messy dark curls coming to rest on top of his pillowcase. He looked oddly out of place, the way sick children look in hospital beds. He wasn’t supposed to look like this, not this bad, not again.

John crossed the room once he finished lying down, trying his best to avoid his eyes, though he could still feel their gaze upon his face, intense as ever. He reached up to turn off the table lamp, clearing his throat a bit.

“If you get sick, come get me. I’ll be down the hall tonight,” he murmured quietly before flipping the switch. He turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to escape the room but found himself being pulled back almost immediately, nearly stumbling on his own feet as a large hand grabbed ahold of his wrist.

“John…” John clenched his jaw immediately, closing his eyes and shaking his head, willing himself to stay calm.

“Stop it, Sherlock. You don’t get to do that, alright? You don’t get to keep apologizing like th-”

“You know I love you.”

It was as if Sherlock hadn’t even been listening to him, he just spoke over John’s agitated words like it was nothing, cutting him off with his quiet voice. John opened his eyes then, immediately turning his head to meet his gaze. Sherlock’s eyes seemed more focused than before, his face halfway smushed against the side of his pillow as he stared back at him, his hand still tightly gripped around John’s wrist.

John pulled his arm away, probably a little too quickly but he couldn’t care less at this point. He crossed his arms over his chest, pursing his lips agitatedly as he squinted slightly at his boyfriend.

“Yeah, I know that,” he replied bitterly, tilting his head to the side slightly. “Although you’ve got a really funny way of showing it.” Sherlock merely blinked at him in response, his arm still hanging limply off the side of the bed where John had shoved it.

“Say you love me back.” John’s mind seemed to blank out for what seemed like the tenth time that day, his mind struggling to comprehend his words. What kind of a demand was that? Sherlock was staring at him with his hazy eyes and pale demeanor, his body drowning in drugs and all he could say was that?

John found himself shaking his head before his thoughts had finished, dropping his arms down from his chest.

“Not right now, Sherlock. I can’t do that.” He sucked in another breath, ignoring the way his boyfriend’s eyes had begun to water once more. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And really, it probably should’ve hurt him more to say that. John found himself closing the bedroom door behind him, eager to muffle out the quiet crying he’d just heard beginning from within. But it was late, he was exhausted and quite frankly, Sherlock had done this to himself. He wasn’t going to sit there and act like everything was okay when it wasn’t. It didn’t matter anymore; Moriarty hadn’t been the one to put the heroin needle in his hand.

John made his way down the hallway, rubbing his eyes tiredly and trying to figure out where he’d left Rosie’s baby monitor.

Looking back on it now...he should’ve said it back.

He should’ve swallowed his fucking pride and just said he loved his boyfriend back because, of course he did. He was never going to stop loving him, no matter what he did. That’s just how it was, how it was always going to be.

But things usually never work out the way John wants them to.

Why didn’t he just say it back?

 

* * *

 

It was the silence that woke him up that morning.

The lack of noise, the deafening volume that came with nothing; that’s the first thing he was aware of when he opened his eyes.

Sherlock couldn’t really remember much of what happened the night before; well, not before he got home. His head was pounding and he felt vaguely nauseous, his limbs sore and tense from being still for so long. There was barely any light pouring in from the windows, London still as dreary as it was yesterday. Sherlock breathed out slowly, his chest feeling strangely tight as he blinked up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the flat’s AC turning on.

He debated calling out for John; he was probably still fast asleep in the living room, and judging from the dim lighting out it was still early. He shifted his head slightly and groaned immediately, his head throbbing painfully in protest at the movement. He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath before pushing himself to sit up slowly, his entire body screaming at him to stop. His stomach churned fitfully, slowly piecing together the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything in probably close to two days.

Sherlock raised his hand up to rub at his eyes, kneading at them with the palms of his hands until stars began to dance in front of his vision. His arm was sore, and as he dropped his hands he gazed down at the purple and blue bruises beginning to form on his alabaster skin from the needles. His chest ached at that, guilt rising inside of him like a flood.

He needed to talk to John. He needed to fix this.

It was slow, and his mind was working at a fraction of the speed it normally did, but the memories of the night before came crawling back like army soldiers in a trench. He remembered snippets at first; John’s face when he opened the door, the way he tensed up when Sherlock touched him, the way he couldn’t look him in the eye.  
The way he refused to say he loved him back before he left the room.

And yeah, he deserved that. He knew he did. It was frustrating how dependent he had suddenly found himself on words. All words were were noises made in different dialects from someone’s mouth and suddenly they had Sherlock crying himself into a drug induced stupor? It just didn’t make sense; he’d never fathomed he’d ever find himself getting emotional over a fucking sentence. He had no heart, no emotion, no feelings; that’s how he’d grown up. That’s how he got by. There wasn’t time for...love.

His thoughts were interrupted with a muffled noise coming from down the hall, one that sounded slightly static and distorted. Sherlock frowned a bit, pushing his comforter off his body and towards the left side of the bed. He hadn’t expected John to be there, but...it still felt strange.

The noise got louder, suddenly taking on a higher pitch. His head pounding, Sherlock swung his legs off the side of the bed, fighting back the urge to vomit as he swayed involuntarily, his socked feet slipping slightly on the wooden floor.

“John?” The volume of his own voice startled him, thick and heavy with the residue of sleep and heroin. No response.

He ambled his way to the door, pushing it open with a still slightly shaky hand and preceded to walk down the hall, the static noise getting progressively louder. He could see the dreary morning light aching to reach through the curtains in the living room, illuminating an object on the floor, the source of the noise.

Another high pitched note, and Sherlock’s frown deepened as he tilted his head down, his foot brushing up against Rosie’s baby monitor.

It shouldn’t have taken him as long to figure out, but it took another one of Rosie’s static cries from the other end of the monitor for Sherlock to scramble up the stairs, gripping onto the railing for support and ignoring the bile building in his throat.

The door swung open heavily, colliding with the wall behind it and Sherlock was greeted with Rosie’s distraught looking face, her cheeks shiny with tears and her little hands gripping the edges of her crib. She let out another cry when the door opened, bouncing rapidly on her legs.

“Papa!” She sniffled again, reaching her arms out needily towards him, another stray tear falling down her face. Sherlock immediately crossed the room and scooped her up, ignoring the way his arms ached before pulling her close to his chest.

“It’s alright, bug...don’t cry…” Sherlock could barely focus on the way Rosie buried her face into his neck and hugged him back, his mind trying its best to catch up on everything that had happened.

Where the fuck was John?

“Has Daddy been here this morning?” He felt Rosie sniffle against his shirt, his neck growing damp from her crying.

“No…” Sherlock felt his stomach plummet sickeningly, immediately turning around and gazing at the room. It seemed normal enough; nothing was out of place, no windows were open, Rosie’s things were left as he remembered them, at least from the morning before. Keeping one beneath her and one hand rubbing her back, he slowly circled around the entire room before stopping in front of the clock, tensing up.

“It’s...almost noon?” Rosie was awake by 8 or 9 every single morning, without fail, and John had never forgotten to or ignored getting her.

Something inside his brain seemed to click then; whatever shit was being pumped through his system was suddenly ignored, his mind focusing in on one thing only;

Find John.

Sherlock was running down the stairs before he knew it, Rosie clinging onto his neck tightly as she bounced in his arms. He kept his grip on her and immediately reached down for the baby monitor, furrowing his brow as he examined it.

“The back’s busted out, scratches on the side...looks like Daddy might’ve dropped it, mmm bug?” Rosie sniffled, having resorted to popping her thumb in her mouth to relax. It was safe to say she had no idea what was happening; after all, she was a toddler, but it helped immensely to think out loud. She was a good listener; good like her father.

London was awake and bustling outside; the dim lighting Sherlock had mistaken for morning light was simply due to the overcast sky. He peered out the window briefly, watching people and cars mill about aimlessly two stories down.

Abandoning the window, he took a step back and turned around, taking a proper look at the flat for the first time that day. Everything was pretty much still in its rightful place, save for a few of Rosie’s toys scattered amongst the floor. He tiptoed his way around them, still keeping a tight grip on Rosie as he made his way towards the kitchen, then back to the front door, pushing it open slightly.

“Mrs. Hudson?!” he called out loudly, feeling Rosie wince at his loud voice. “I’m sorry, love…” he murmured quietly, giving her an apologetic kiss on the head and trying to mask the panic that was starting to creep into his voice. Nothing was making sense; it was like someone had thrown him in a room and shut off the lights, and now he was ambling his way about, trying to get himself out of it.

He heard the landlady’s footsteps rapidly approaching along the steps, turning around to face her worried face as she came through the doorway.

“What is it?! What’s wrong?!” Her gaze automatically went to Rosie, checking to see if she was okay. Sherlock took a step forward, staring intently at her.

“Have you heard from or seen John at all this morning?” The sudden look of confusion that overtook her face was answer enough; Sherlock felt his own face blank out as she blinked at him in response.

“No, dear...I thought he was up here, with the two of you…” The nauseous feeling came back, only this time it was only partially due to the drugs in his system. Sherlock aimlessly began to walk back down the hallway, his heart pounding loudly in his ears as he pushed open his bedroom door, making a beeline for his coat that he knew was still draped across the chair. He grabbed ahold of his phone, glancing hopelessly for a call or text from John but to no avail.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he pulled Rosie to sit in his lap, keeping one arm wrapped around her front before dialing quickly with his free hand, bringing the phone up to his ear as it began to ring. He saw Mrs. Hudson appear in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, silently thanking her for not bombarding him with questions. After two rings, a voice picked up.

“Brother mine, how nice of you to call.”

Sherlock felt his hackles rise at the sound of his older brother’s smug voice, biting his tongue for the sake of the toddler in his lap.

“Check the cameras at Baker Street. Don’t lie and say you don’t still use them, I know you do. I need to know where John is.” Sherlock was surprised at the desperation in his voice; that hadn’t been his intention. Mycroft was apparently taken aback too, for it took him a few seconds of mental process before he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, apparently ignoring all of the smart comments Sherlock knew he had floating around his brain.

“I can do that,” he replied simply, and there was a rustling on the other end of the line as he began to move. Rosie had finished sniffling and was now gazing up at Sherlock quietly, thumb still in her mouth to make up for her lack of her pacifier. Mrs. Hudson walked inside and gently scooped the toddler up, flashing Sherlock a concerned look.

“Come on love, let’s get something to eat…” Rosie whimpered slightly at leaving him, but nonetheless clung to Mrs. Hudson’s neck, Sherlock watching the two of them walk out quietly.

When the door shut, he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He felt the tension he’d been trying to fight out suddenly come rushing back in, along with panic and fear and worry. He squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his free hand to rub violently at his face, as if that would help his mind think straight. Sherlock hung his head and sighed yet again, rolling his shoulders slightly until he heard Mycroft cough on the other end of the line.

“Sherlock…” His voice faltered out. Sherlock clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth before he responded.

“Just spit it out, Mycroft. You’re wasting time.” His tone was short and snappy and frankly he didn’t care. Every second his brother wasted was another second where he could be out finding John, another second closer to bringing him home. Another second closer to apologizing.

Silence on the other end. Sherlock was about to yell when his brother cut him off.

“He took him, Sherlock.”

There was a slight crackle of static from the other end, and distantly downstairs Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson speaking to Rosie. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to fall mute, to waste time.

It was as if his brain was rejecting what his older brother had just told him, like an organ unfit for a transplant. The information was so vague, so skewed and yet Sherlock knew exactly what was said.

‘He’ had a name.

‘He’ was Moriarty.

More silence. Sherlock fought desperately to swallow down the lump in his throat, silently praying his voice wouldn’t crack or shake.

“You’re sure?” Of course he was fucking sure, Sherlock thought bitterly. There wasn’t any mistaking Jim Moriarty’s presence on a camera, especially not on Mycroft’s part. Sherlock found himself standing up quickly, listening as Mycroft sighed on the other end of the line.

“I’m sure, Sherlock. John tried to fight it at first, but then he seemed to tell him something and...he stopped. Just gave in, followed him out the front door.” Sherlock stiffened at that, his heart clenching uncomfortably. It made him sick to think about what Moriarty might’ve said to him, made him sick to think that he was just upstairs, passed out from all of the drugs in his system and could’ve saved him. It made him sick that Rosie had been asleep, unguarded in her bedroom while this entire thing happened.

“So much for your security, Mycroft. Do me a favor and triple the protection at Baker Street, I’m going out and I need to be sure that Mrs. Hudson and Rosie are okay.” His thumb hovered over the end button, ready to hang up before Mycroft stopped him loudly on the other end.

“Sherlock, you don’t even have any idea where they’re at!” Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head.

“Doesn’t matter. This is my fault and-” He stopped short. He vaguely wondered if Mycroft knew about anything that had happened last night. It was safe to assume that he did, but...he didn’t want him to, necessarily. He cleared his throat again, thankful that Mycroft had decided to keep his mouth shut before speaking again. “I just need to find him.”

There was another silence, although this one seemed longer and more tense. Sherlock shuffled nervously back and forth on his feet, waiting for a reply but not really expecting one.

“Just...be careful, okay?” Sherlock scoffed again, rolling his eyes.

“Sentiment is getting the best of you, brother,” he drawled sarcastically, reaching down for his coat off the chair.

“Don’t do it for me, Sherlock.” Sherlock paused at that, standing back up and blinking a bit. Another beat, then Mycroft’s voice once more.

“Do it for him, for John. We can’t have you going out and getting killed all for his sake. He’d never forgive you.”

There was another static crackling noise and then the line went dead. Sherlock kept the phone pressed to his cheek for a few moments, his brother’s words repeating themselves over and over in his mind. He looked up after a moment, glancing around at John’s clothes scattered about amongst the floor, along with his shoes sitting beside the closet door. He turned his head slightly, taking in the unmade half of the bed where he had slept just a couple nights before, when things were still okay. When Sherlock hadn’t gone and fucked everything up beyond belief.

Before he knew it, Sherlock had torn apart the closet in search of his handgun and thrown his coat on, rushing his way downstairs in order to leave as quickly as he could. He couldn’t sit there and waste anymore time sulking away in Baker Street.

He tried his best to sweep past his flat door without being noticed, but of course Mrs. Hudson was near the doorway with Rosie, making a beeline for him as soon as he tried to skip past.

“Are you going out to find him, Sherlock?!” Sherlock let out an audible groan, reluctantly stopping in his tracks. He turned towards the landlady, scanning her worried face for a moment.

“I’m not going to just sit here and wait for him to be returned on my doorstep,” he snapped, probably a bit too harshly but the old woman merely sighed at him.

“I understand, dear. But please, don’t get yourself hurt. You’re smart and all, but...don’t try and be a hero. You need to come back home, both of you.” Sherlock fell silent at that, his face softening ever so slightly at her words. He merely nodded in response, which seemed to work for her, before his gaze fell down to Rosie, who was eagerly reaching her arms out to him from Mrs. Hudson’s waist.

“Papa!” Sherlock bit back a sigh, reaching out and pushing one of her blonde curls behind her ear.

“Not now, bug. Papa has to go for a bit…” Rosie pouted at his response, dropping her arms limply at her sides. “I have to go find Daddy…”

Rosie tilted her head to the side slightly, seeming to scan his face before she threw her arms up once more in another feeble attempt to be held. Sherlock smiled a bit, reaching out and taking her gently, pulling her close to his chest.

“I guess Papa needs a good luck hug from his best girl…” Rosie giggled and hugged his neck as tightly as she could, resting her face on his neck.

“I love you, Papa…” she murmured into his skin. Sherlock felt his chest tighten up at that, swallowing thickly as he tilted his head down, pressing a kiss to the side of her cheek.

“I love you too, bug,” he replied quietly, rubbing her back. “I’ll be home soon, I promise…” Reluctantly, he held the toddler out and gave her back to Mrs. Hudson, the gun in his pocket feeling much heavier than before. Before anyone could say anything else to him that might emotionally distract him, he turned on his heel and stalked out, jogging down the stairs before reaching outside, shutting the door behind him. It was still overcast, the humidity of the water in the air suffocating him slightly. He swallowed thickly and looked around, shoving his hands into his pockets as people walked around him, ignoring his presence.

It was then he realized he really had no earthly idea where John even was.

Sherlock’s brain was running a mile a minute, his eyes scanning the area around his flat. He could feel his heart rate begin to speed up slightly, his hands clenching and unclenching inside of his pockets. Nothing looked out of place or weird; frankly, it all seemed to blur together. Same sidewalk, same street signs, same street lights…

“Cameras!” Of course; Mycroft had access to all of the cameras in the city, especially the ones surrounding his little brother’s flat. Whipping around, Sherlock tilted his head up to look at the camera he knew was there and faltered immediately.

The small lens on the front was completely painted black, probably spray painted in a rush. Sherlock turned his head slightly, gazing down the street and spotting the next closest one, the same dark splatter on it.

Sherlock had never been one for panicking; he didn’t do it often. Panic was something he didn’t have time for, something that wasn’t meant to be endured as far as he was concerned. But as more and more people began to pass him on the sidewalk, as more cars sped past and as the clouds finally opened up above him and a cold drizzle began to soak him, Sherlock could taste the panic on his tongue like bile.

The people began to scatter like ants around him, making beelines to stand beneath canopies and bricked doorways, yet Sherlock found his feet permanently glued to the ground, unable to move. He could feel the stares on his face, burning his skin like sunburns. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands and inhaled sharply, willing himself to just stop and THINK.

Moriarty was a show off; he remembered John saying that once, and it was true. He was a drama queen, the star of the show. He loved his attention and got upset when he didn’t get it. That being said, Sherlock knew he wasn’t one for mysteries. He was a very simple person, if you really thought about it; he WANTED to be found out about, he WANTED a fight. Therefore, he never made things that hard. Not for anyone, and especially not for Sherlock, the man he had been teasing and messing with for years now.

There had to be something to all of this.

There had to be a clue, or a hint, or some sort of break to tell Sherlock where Moriarty had taken John. It wasn’t going to be any fun for Moriarty if the man he was torturing had no idea where to find him.

Sherlock opened his eyes again, the rain falling hard against his eyelashes and making him blink. He let out a slow breath, barely noticing the clap of thunder that startled everyone around him.

“Clues, think about clues...what could he have left…” Sherlock blinked again, squinting his eyebrows slightly as he muttered to himself. There was the note; short and to the point. He’d spent hours upon hours the first few weeks after he’d received it analyzing the small piece of paper for anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, and had found nothing. The handwriting was a perfect match for Moriarty’s, no mistake there. He hadn’t let much room for interpretation; he said what he had to say and that was it.

Fast forward a few months, and then there was the writing on the wall, along with the body. A bold move on his part, a move that showed he was tired of waiting and wanted attention again. Another loud crack of thunder. Sherlock had the strong urge to yell at the sky to shut up.

The quote...it had been Shakespeare. From a well known play too, not one of his Henry’s or something looked over. Romeo and Juliet.

What did that have to do with anything? He could’ve picked anything, any quote in the world and yet he specifically chose that line, that play, that playwright. Sherlock turned his head slightly, glancing at someone running past him, shielding their head from the pouring rain.

“Wait...wait, stop!” Sherlock watched the man stop, turning abruptly to face him as he jogged forward, pointing to the newspaper. “Is that today’s?”

The man blinked at him for a moment, looking confused as Sherlock groaned loudly. “It’s a simple question, do I really need to sound it out for you?” he snapped, and the man frowned, standing up a bit straighter.

“Yes, it’s from to-” Sherlock had it snatched from his hand before he could finish his sentence, closing it up to examine the front page.

“April 23rd…” He furrowed his eyebrows, looking up towards the now soaked man that was seething in front of him. “What’s important about April 23rd?”

Sherlock jumped slightly as the man reached out and snatched the paper back from him, holding it above it head.

“I don’t know, asshole! Figure it out yourself!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, watching as the man lifted up his wrist to look at his watch, sighing loudly. “For God’s sake, I’m late to the Shakespeare festival…” Sherlock immediately froze up, watching the man turn and begin to stride away before his senses caught back up with him and he ran ahead to catch up.

“Did you say Shakespeare festival?” The man shot him another cross look, quickening his pace.

“Yeah, I did. Big old celebration thing, at the Globe Theatre in Southwark. It’s Shakespeare’s birthday, or something.” Sherlock immediately stopped, not giving notice to the man who kept walking a few yards, finally noticing he’d stopped following him and turning to frown at him.

“Are you okay?” His voice was drowned out by yet another loud crack of thunder, and Sherlock swore he felt it resonate in his chest.

Shakespeare festival...public crowds...easy to get around...perfect place for something big. Something fatal. The perfect scene for Moriarty to place himself in.

Sherlock turned on his heel and immediately leapt into the street, stopping the first taxi he could see. He threw himself inside, shaking out his hair as he barked out,

“Shakespeare Festival, Southwark.” The cabbie merely gave him a strange look before nodding and taking off. Sherlock pulled out his phone with fumbling fingers; he blamed it on how wet his hands were, but in reality it was from the slight shaking that had begun to take over. He typed out a quick message to his brother, swallowing thickly before setting his phone down in his lap, gazing out the window.

‘Shakespeare Festival. Southwark. Send everyone you can. Please.’

The crowds were still abundant despite the massive rainstorm outside. People stood huddled beneath umbrellas, street performers sulking in their now soaked costumes. Sherlock leapt from the cab as soon as it stopped, throwing some money in the driver’s general direction before slamming the door shut and weaving his way quickly through the steps, making a beeline for the steps leading up to the Globe.

 

The crowds thinned out the closer he got. He ran up the steps quickly, taking two at a time before he reached the front doors- and the guards that came with them.

“Hold on, you’re not allowed inside! They’re preparing for a private performance, mate!” Sherlock blinked at the man in confusion, taking in his uniform and probably well hidden taser at his side.

“Performance? What perfomance?” Sherlock tried his best to sound nonchalant, acting like he hadn’t nearly just run this man over to get inside but his heart was pounding rapidly against his ribcage. The sheer idea that John was inside there, right now, with Moriarty-

“Oi, relax! He’s the special guest I was talking about!”

There it was.

That voice.

The voice that had been haunting his nightmares for months on end, the voice that never seemed to leave his subconscious no matter how hard he tried to drown it out.  
Sherlock found himself frozen to his spot, setting his jaw and staring at the concrete ground beneath him. The footsteps got louder, and his stomach churned miserably.

“Of course he’s welcome inside...Sherlock!” A shiver ran down his spine and he tried his best to ignore it, swallowing down all his fear in order to lift his head up and meet the man’s eyes.

For John.

He just needed John back.

When he looked up, he was looking into the face of the still slightly concerned security guard, who eyed Sherlock up and down for a moment.

“This is him? That detective?” His unimpressed voice would’ve offended Sherlock any other day, but he kept his mouth shut as a loud clapping noise startled him, the noise slowly getting closer and closer.

“Oh yes, this is him. Don’t mind his appearance; he had a rough night last night.” Sherlock grit his teeth, staring forward pointedly at the guard as he continued to gaze uninterestedly at him. “But he didn’t come here for me, even though I wanted him to.” His voice had taken on a sudden whiny tone. “Went through all this trouble for you to get to notice me and in the end all you want is JOHN WATSON.” He drawled out his name slowly, like a child, and Sherlock immediately turned his head, stomping up the rest of the steps and sliding around the guard until he came face to face with the man who was supposed to be dead.

“Where is he.” Moriarty’s smile hadn’t changed a bit. He tilted his head to the side, scanning his face with those slightly dim, large eyes of his. He was dressed in a grey suit, not much different from the one he’d been wearing at the top of St. Bart’s, his arms crossed behind his back. He looked very much alive...and that’s what terrified Sherlock the most.

“Don’t even get a hello?” Moriarty was standing beneath one of the doorways, perfectly dry as Sherlock continued to get rained on, his hair dripping incessantly in his eyes. “Not a, ‘Thanks for the note, Jim’?” Sherlock continued to glare at the man simply because, in that moment, he felt if he opened his mouth again he’d start to fall apart. Moriarty grinned at him, taking a step forward. “I arranged a little...private performance for you. You’ll love the main star; real soldierly type, I know what you like.” Sherlock was sure his blood was literally boiling now; it took all he had in him not to reach into his pocket and grab the gun to shoot him in the head right then and there, in front of everyone in the square.  
Moriarty hummed to himself, turning on his heel slightly. Sherlock kept silent, watching him reach over towards a hidden part of the wall and pull out an umbrella, still smiling towards the detective before opening it.

“Join me? I know it must be annoying, being all wet like that.” He winked playfully at him, and Sherlock really felt sick now. He saw the guard shift a bit in his spot, moving slightly so that Sherlock had full access to walk towards Moriarty. For a moment, the two men simply stared at one another, their eyes daring to speak what their mouths wouldn’t.

‘I just want John.’

‘I know you do. Come and get him.’

With every step he took, Sherlock felt the weight of the impending situation fall onto his chest like lead. He had no idea what was going on inside, what he had done to John...the sheer thought made him nauseous. Moriarty eagerly held the umbrella beneath his head, taking a step forward so that they were right on top of each other, noses nearly touching.

“Ah, I’ve missed this. I’m sure you have too, Sherlock. Life must be terribly boring without me.” Sherlock’s mind felt like it was overloading; his thick accent was audible in his ears, his breath hot against his face. Nothing about this was fake; he wasn’t dreaming anymore.

Remaining silent, Sherlock merely glanced towards the direction of the front doors, another loud crack of thunder sounding out around them. He heard Moriarty cluck his tongue disapprovingly, sighing dramatically.

“You’re so impatient. John is just fine, I wouldn’t hurt him without you around to see it happen.” Sherlock closed his eyes at that, willing himself to keep his clenched hands buried inside of his pockets. He heard Moriarty turn on his heels, heavy footsteps beginning to walk forward and Sherlock followed quickly, opening his eyes once more.

He fought to stay beneath the umbrella in fear that Moriarty would snap at him, keeping up with his swift strides as they entered the theatre. The open arena theatre was completely empty, the only sound the constant shower of rain that was falling from the sky and over the seating surrounding the stage. Sherlock glanced uneasily ahead of him, scanning the place for any sort of movement or sign of life, but there was none. He turned towards Moriarty, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Can I see him?” he asked calmly, watching Moriarty shake out his umbrella before pulling it back in. It wasn’t the wisest thing to ask; really, he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut altogether, but Sherlock could feel the panic beginning to settle in his stomach, his hands shaking slightly in their pockets. Moriarty looked up towards him, meeting his eyes with a slight smile, setting his umbrella down in a chair beside his leg.

“Oh, relax. You’ll see him soon enough.” Moriarty sidestepped around the chair, swinging his arms back and forth lazily as he began to pace, snaking his way around Sherlock. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how I did it?” He grinned, tilting his head slightly as he stopped on his left side. “Or have you already figured it out?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, staring fixedly at a spot on one of the arena walls opposite him. Moriarty’s gaze seemed to be boring holes into the side of his skull because, yes, of course he’d figured it out.

“Fired a blank into your mouth. Once you hit the ground at a certain angle, a packet of fake blood concealed in your shirt collar burst, giving the illusion that your head was bleeding…” Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, listening to Moriarty hum happily before continuing. “You knew I wouldn’t check your pulse, so all you had to do was...lie there…” His slow, loud clapping began to start up once again, making Sherlock shiver slightly and open his eyes, revealing the man to be standing right in front of him, a smug smile on his face.

“It’s so simple, mmm? Not everything has to be so clever, you know.” He dropped his hands suddenly, taking a step forward and getting directly into his face again. “You’re not as clever as you think,” he murmured darkly, dropping his smile for a moment before inhaling sharply and bringing it back, humming loudly.

“You know what? I’m feeling nice tonight,” he announced loudly, his voice echoing through the empty arena, over the sound of the still falling rain. “Before our...festivities start, I’m going to let you see John.” Sherlock stiffened up immediately, his heart thumping rapidly inside his chest. Moriarty smirked at his reaction, turning on his heel to step around him, making his way towards the stage. “Johnny boy!” Sherlock turned slowly in his spot, eyes following him with hawk-like precision as he watched Moriarty walk up the stairs, snapping his fingers once. “Don’t be shy; your big, brave boyfriend is here to see you.”

For a moment, Sherlock could hear absolutely nothing except for the blood that was pounding furiously in his ears. Time seemed to slow down; his feet stayed rooted in place as Moriarty walked towards the side of the stage, and John emerged from the back.

Sherlock had been thankful to see John many times in his life; if he was being honest, waking up beside him every single morning was something to be thankful for. But he felt his body suddenly weaken, as if the strain and stress from the past few hours had just suddenly decided to leave him all at once. Sherlock nearly cried out in relief, seeing his boyfriend slowly walk downstage, still in the same khakis and green sweater he’d seen him in the night before, when John was helping him go to bed, drugged up and nearly unconscious. John reached center stage, blinking slowly in Sherlock’s direction, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He swallowed once, Sherlock watching his Adam’s apple bob slightly. His mouth was set in a slight frown, but Sherlock could see everything he needed to in John’s eyes. His watery, shiny, fearful blue eyes.

In an instant Sherlock found himself running towards the stage, leaping up the steps quickly. John turned to face him, reaching his arms out just in time for Sherlock to run into them, the two of them immediately grabbing hold of each other.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders immediately, locking him in a protective embrace, letting out a ragged sigh into his hair. “John…” he breathed out quietly, listening as John immediately exhaled in response, his face automatically going into the crook of his neck.

“Sherlock, oh God…” His arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, as if Sherlock were a life jacket and he was about to drown. Sherlock closed his eyes, one of his hands snaking up to run through John’s hair, tilting his head slightly.

“John, I am so sorry…” Sherlock fell silent as John shushed him loudly, his breath hot against his skin. He felt him shake his head slowly, then bring his face up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Not now. Don’t, please. It’s okay.” Sherlock stared back at him painfully, pursing his lips slightly as John’s hands came to rest on either side of his face. “It’s gonna be okay.”

How could he say this? Things were most definitely not okay, and John really shouldn’t be telling him they were. He was here, being held under Moriarty’s control, all because of Sherlock’s recklessness. Sherlock could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, feeling guilty at the way he so loved John holding his face the way he was.

John reached up and pushed a curl that had fallen into his eye, giving him a watery sort of smile that felt like a bullet in Sherlock’s chest.

“I love you. I should’ve just fucking told you last night, but I love you. I’ll always love you, you know this, Sherlock…” His voice cracked, and Sherlock could hear the panic beginning to build as he spoke. Sherlock nodded quickly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead, snaking his free arm around him again, pulling him close.

“I know, John. God, I know…” He didn’t deserve any of this man’s love. He didn’t deserve John at all. John’s face went back into his neck, and Sherlock could feel hot tears begin to spill onto his already feverish skin.

This wasn’t like it was before. There hadn’t been all of these feelings, all of these declarations of love out and in the open for everyone to see.

Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, and for the first time, Sherlock felt like they were losing already.

Moriarty made a loud gagging noise then, Sherlock falling silent as he felt John tense up in his arms, listening to loud footsteps begin to approach him from behind.

“Good God, you two are absolutely repulsive. They weren’t kidding when they said you two were exclusive now.” Sherlock really didn’t want to know who “they” were, and merely continued to keep his grip on John as Moriarty began to circle the couple, rubbing his hands together. “Now, before I start vomiting, let’s get this show started, shall we?” Sherlock turned his head just in time to see Moriarty pull a gun from his jacket pocket, cocking it with one swift motion of his thumb before pushing it directly onto Sherlock’s temple, smiling softly. “Time’s up.”

And really, it was heartbreaking the way John’s grip on his waist tighten once more, pitiful the way Sherlock had to contain his whimper. Slowly, Sherlock pulled his arm from around John’s back, his other one falling from his hair. John dug his fingernails tightly into his back, as if for some sort of grasp at hope before he reluctantly dropped his arms. Sherlock stepped back slowly, keeping his eyes locked on John’s the entire time, Moriarty following him as they took a few steps back, leaving John center stage once more.

“Good,” Moriarty crooned, keeping the gun pressed to his head before tilting his head up, calling out loudly. “Lights!”

In an instant, John was suddenly illuminated in a harsh, bright spotlight, coming from the opposing side of the theatre, near the top of the building. Sherlock squinted, watching John jump in surprise as Moriarty laughed softly, turning to glance at Sherlock. “Your boyfriend has quite the stage presence.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to snap at him as Moriarty suddenly took a step back, clucking his tongue disappointedly.

“Oh Sherlock, really?” He reached over quickly, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and quickly removing his gun, quicker than Sherlock could even react. He sighed dramatically, twirling it in his hand while keeping his own aimed at the detective’s forehead. “Predictable. You’re just as ordinary and boring as you were all those years ago on the rooftop.”

John was absolutely silent in his spot onstage; Sherlock’s eyes flickered up briefly to see him standing there, looking absolutely miserable, watching the two of them with empty eyes. Moriarty followed Sherlock’s gaze, smiling brightly in John’s direction. “Are you ready for your stage debut, Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock watched in silent despair as John cleared his throat, nodding in response. Moriarty took Sherlock’s gun, slipping it into his own pocket before pressing the cold metal of his handgun back into Sherlock’s temple, watching John carefully.

“I’m sure you know the story of Romeo and Juliet; by the way, did you like my clever little line I used on the wall?” He aimed the question at no one in particular, and Sherlock kept his mouth shut, tilting his head downward slightly to stare at the ground.

The rain showed no intention of stopping anytime soon, still falling rapidly onto the front section of seating and edge of the stage. Sherlock watched Moriarty’s feet as they began to loop back around him once more, inching towards John once more.

“Now, we’re going to play a little game.” Sherlock looked up quickly as a loud, creaking noise began to echo among the arena, the floor of the stage catching his attention. He watched silently as a trapdoor opened directly down center, a few feet in front of John. A group of hands immediately pushed up a small wooden table, sliding it onto the floor above them. Moriarty watched with a pleased look in his eye, leaning down slightly as a hand reached upward, holding out a small, purple velvet bag.

“Thank you,” he replied sweetly, before swinging his foot forward swiftly and kicking the door shut once more, turning back around to face the couple, a different sort of look in his eyes. “I’ve got everything I need to ruin your lives, right here in this bag.” He shook it gently, and Sherlock could hear noise like glasses clinking together come from it faintly.

“We all know the story of Romeo and Juliet, RIGHT?” he repeated, and Sherlock dared to glance briefly at John, who had gone particularly pale in the face, staring at the table in front of him as if trying to piece things together.

“Two households, both alike in dignity,forbidden love, blah blah blah…” Sherlock flinched slightly as Moriarty twirled the gun lazily, his finger dangerously close to the trigger. “It’s one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, no?” John jumped violently in his spot as Moriarty suddenly slammed his hand on the table in front of him, leaning forward in the same moment. “What happens at the end of the play, John?”

Sherlock was seeing red at this point; he knew that there had to be people surrounding them, hiding in the wings and in the shadows of the building, ready to shoot him dead if he even leaned towards their direction. So all he could do was stand there, staring blankly at the two men, his mouth tasting of bile as he watched John take a deep breath.

“They kill themselves,” he replied simply, getting another loud cackle on Moriarty’s part, and Sherlock watched as he opened the bag, dumping out its contents onto the table.  
6 glass vials, each ranging in different size, hit the wood with dull thumping noises. John scrambled to keep them from rolling off, catching a couple with his hands as Moriarty threw the bag somewhere off the stage behind him, beginning to pace again.

“Oh yes, and it’s so tragic and heartbreaking and the audience cries because it’s just not fair!” He suddenly turned and zoned in on Sherlock, locking eyes with him. “Life isn’t fair though, is it Sherlock?” He smirked, seeming to enjoy the way Sherlock stared uneasily back at him. Moriarty waved his gun around absentmindedly in his direction, turning and walking back towards the table. “Come here. Now.”

Sherlock dared to peek at John while his back was turn, the couple exchanging blank, almost empty looks, simply at a loss for what to do. Sherlock followed his directions after a moment, stepping forward and making his way to the table. He stood in front of it, his hands shoved into each of his coat pockets, his hair still dripping slightly from the rainwater in it.

“Good,” Moriarty purred, still smiling rather sweetly at him before he glanced at John. “Other side of the table, please.” John walked over with ease, still staring Sherlock down. For a moment, the couple stood there, stoic faces and helpless eyes facing one another. Moriarty stepped in between the two of them, glancing down at the vials on the table.

“Ready for the game?” Sherlock’s eyes darted down to watch his free hand carefully arrange each of the various bottles in a row, humming happily to himself. “Now John, when Juliet is first found “dead”, what was her cause of death?” Sherlock felt himself stiffen up immediately as his gun was swung directly in front of John’s face, pointing directly between his eyebrows. John, however, remained perfectly still, staring Moriarty down.

“Poison,” he responded coolly, his face unreadable until his eyes fell back to the table, a slow look of realization dawning upon his face. Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to keep his heartrate down as Moriarty smiled in response, turning the gun away to face Sherlock once more.

“Poison!” he repeated gleefully, taking a step forward. “Such a boring way to die, boring way to kill yourself.” He tilted his head to the side, pouting his mouth slightly. “You would know, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

And really, he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jim Moriarty knew about his past suicide attempts. He knew everything about him, down to the very last detail but there was something different about having it aired out for everyone to see. This was a jab at him, a jab at something personal and difficult and...and John didn’t know about any of it.

It wasn’t something you casually brought up; hey, by the way, I attempted suicide many times growing up and even after I grew up. He’d tried everything in the book at least once, including varying amounts of poison. It never worked; Mycroft always got him to the ER to get his stomach pumped in time.

Sherlock refrained from looking in John’s direction at all; he didn’t want to see his face. He kept his mouth shut, jaw still clenched tightly as he wiped any and all emotion from his face, refusing to let him see what was going on inside his head. Moriarty rolled his eyes in response, turning back to his table.

“Enough of this, I’m ready for someone to die,” he mused in a bored tone, and Sherlock’s stomach churned horribly. “The rules are simple; I’ve got 6 bottles here, 5 of them are poison, one is not. Sherlock…” He held his hand up with the gun, pointing lazily towards him. “...has 60 seconds to pick the one that is good. However, every 10 seconds that goes by without him choosing…” He swung his arm around and pointed it at John’s face. “...I pull the trigger. There’s 1 bullet in this round of 6; let’s hope Johnny boy doesn’t find out which one it is, mmm?”

Sherlock’s mind seemed to blank out then. He stared pointedly at John for a moment, blinking rapidly at his now ghostly white face, feeling bile begin to rise to his throat.  
Moriarty reached down with one hand, pulling out his phone and swiping his thumb across it lazily, pulling up a timer. He set it down on the top of the wooden table, already set for 60 seconds and grinned childishly up at Sherlock. “Ready to show us how clever you really are?” he asked innocently, raising his gun once more and pressing it to rest against John’s temple.

He heard John exhale loudly, refusing to meet his eyes as he glanced down at the bottles, slowly pulling his hands from his pockets. He listened to the steady shower of rain still falling from the sky above them for a moment before nodding once, swallowing thickly.

“60 seconds starting...now.” He wasn’t really aware of what he was doing, but Sherlock watched his hands fly forward immediately, grabbing the bottle closest towards him. They were all the same clear color and, for the lack of not knowing what to do, he began to shake each one violently, analyzing for any change in color or viscosity.

“50!” His reverie was suddenly interrupted by Moriarty’s loud voice, and Sherlock looked up just in time to see his finger pull the trigger.

Nothing. Sherlock nearly cried in relief as John opened his eyes slowly, visibly shaking now. Moriarty raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, eyes flickering towards the table as Sherlock looked back down, immediately pushing aside two of the bottles. He swallowed again, his heart pounding rapidly against his chest as he began pulling the tops off of each bottle, leaning down to smell them.

“40!” Another empty click. Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to look up that time.

He pushed aside yet another bottle, staring down the remaining 3 carefully. All he could hear was his own blood rushing through his ears, and tried not to focus on the way his hands were trembling now.

“30!” Sherlock’s head flew up immediately, letting out an audible sigh of relief when he heard yet another empty click. John let out a choked sort of sobbing noise, his hands hitting the edge of the table to keep himself standing.

“Sherlock, please…” His voice was wavering, and Sherlock winced at his facial expression, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth pressed into a tight line. Moriarty merely hummed, pressing his gun deeper into the skin of his temple, staring Sherlock down with his hazy blue eyes.

“First Mary, now this?” He shook his head, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “Why is it that you’re always letting John down?”

Sherlock clenched his teeth together, feeling like he’d just been punched in the stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to steady his breathing as Moriarty’s voice echoed out amongst the arena theatre once more.

“20!” Sherlock immediately reached forward, grabbing the bottle farthest from him before holding it out quickly.

“No, STOP!” Sherlock’s hand was shaking, holding the tiny bottle in his long fingers as Moriarty raised his eyebrows, glancing at it briefly before lowering his gun.

“Interesting choice...not that I remember which one is which,” he remarked slowly, reaching out and taking it from his hand. John let out another sigh, leaning forward and slumping over the table slightly. Sherlock swallowed thickly, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides to try and get them to stop shaking, watching as Moriarty held the bottle up to his eyes, looking at it rather uninterestedly before holding it out to John.

“Drink it,” he demanded lowly, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“That wasn’t part of the plan!” he exclaimed loudly, stepping forward and receiving the muzzle of a gun to his chest instead.

“Plans change, especially my own ones,” Moriarty replied coolly, turning his head slightly to face him. “Besides, how else are we going to know if you picked the right bottle?”  
Sherlock glared angrily at him, still leaning forward so that the gun was pressing painfully into his skin. He watched silently as Moriarty reached his arm out, holding out the tiny glass vial to John.

“Time to see if your boyfriend’s really a genius or not.”

It was strange, watching everything play out the way it did. Everything seemed to slow down suddenly, like his senses had suddenly become heightened. He watched John’s steady hand reach out and take the vial from him, glancing up as he pulled it close to him. He watched John study it for a moment, his face still void of emotion before he met Sherlock’s eyes once again, giving him a slightly pained look before he tilted his head back, pouring the contents into his mouth in one swift move.

And then he watched John collapse onto the ground.

“JOHN?!” Everything came rushing back to him in an instant, hitting him like a battering ram. Time caught back up, and Sherlock found himself shoving Moriarty’s gun out of his way, running over and falling to his knees beside him. “John, no...God, please wake up…” His hands immediately flew to his shoulders, hoisting his limp body up off the stage to pull him into his lap.

“Come on, John…” He reached down and cupped his face with one hand, suddenly aware of how badly his vision was blurring. “Wake up!” he demanded loudly, shaking his shoulders violently. John remained perfectly still, his head falling limply against Sherlock’s thigh as his shirt began to grow damp from the detective’s onslaught of tears.

In the moments that followed, Sherlock briefly thought about his time being tortured in Serbia. He thought about the way his body felt after his suicide attempts and drug binges, thought about the various times he’d been injured on a case. He imagined every possible thing in his life that had hurt him leading up to this moment, emotionally or physically or mentally, and decided that none of it compared to this.

Nothing compared to clutching his best friend’s lifeless body to his chest, desperately trying not to inhale the scent of his hair. He didn’t want to remember him like this, didn’t want the memory of his smell and face and overall being to be replaced with this moment. Sherlock focused on breathing instead, his chest feeling like it was being ripped open from within. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at John’s peaceful face any longer, clutching him so tightly that his knuckles were probably white.

The rain kept steadily pouring, still maintaining its loud roaring noise against the concrete, but despite it all Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of clapping. He lifted his head immediately, blinking through his tears to see Moriarty standing a few feet away, a smug smile on his face as he slow clapped lazily, still holding his gun in one hand.

“Beautiful performance...nearly convinced me that you two were in love.”

The rage that filled Sherlock in that moment was something he’d never quite experienced before in his life. Sure, he’d gotten mad loads of times; a fair few of them had been towards John. He’d gotten pissed off and angry and seen red in his vision, but they’d been nothing like what he was feeling towards this man right now.

It pained his entire body to do so, but Sherlock found himself gently laying John onto the wooden stage beneath them, resisting the urge to just sit there and sob. He laid his head down gently, thankful that his eyes were shut; he looked like he was sleeping.

The clapping had stopped. For a moment, Sherlock merely sat there on his knees, staring at nothing in particular while the tears kept flowing. The parts of him that had felt numb moments ago now seemed to be on fire, bright red and hot and dangerous.

He heard Moriarty’s footsteps slowly walk towards him, sounding hollow and loud. Sherlock’s chest rose and fell slowly, still struggling to draw in shaky breaths.

And then he snapped.

He turned around quickly and launched himself at the man now in front of him, dragging him to the ground in one swift move. He heard his head make contact with the hardwood, reveling in the noise it made before he sat up on his knees once more, balling his hands into tight fists and beginning to pummel at his face.

Sherlock had never been a violent person; he didn’t see the use in being violent. Too much effort, and for what? Ruining someone’s body? He had never understood what pleasure could be found in beating the shit out of someone or something else, never understood what could possibly come out of it.

As Moriarty’s face got bloodier and bloodier, he finally seemed to understand. His fingers were slick and wet with the red liquid, his breathing heavy and labored as he kept punching.

“YOU-TOOK-HIM-AWAY-FROM-ME!” His voice was absolutely guttural, each word resulting in more contact with his face, and suddenly Moriarty coughed violently, taking a loud gasp for air as he finished yelling. Sherlock lifted his hands shakily, the pain finally beginning to settle in them as he blinked down at Moriarty, his vision suddenly blurring with tears once again. His chest throbbed painfully, a deep ache that seemed to resonate throughout his entire body. He felt his shoulders fall as he dropped his hands to the stage, choking down his own sobs as silence fell between them.

Moriarty turned his head slightly and spit out a mouthful of blood, reaching up to wipe at his face. His nose was freely bleeding, his lip busted open and a nice bruise forming around his left eye. His eyes flickered back to Sherlock’s face, and a small, sinister smile spread across his mouth.

“I took him away, and now I’ve won. I beat you.” Sherlock was shaking now, his fingernails scraping across the stage as Moriarty smirked up at him.

“You can do whatever you want to me, but nothing’s going to change the fact that he’s dead.”

And really, Sherlock should’ve lunged for his throat then. Or maybe started pummeling his face in again. He should have done literally anything else than close his eyes, hang his head down and start sobbing.

He hadn’t cried this hard in...years. Maybe even ever. He couldn’t remember a time where he struggled to breathe in between each sob, where he began to feel lightheaded and had to hold himself up with his palms to the ground in order to stop from collapsing.

He felt as if the walls of the theatre were caving in on him, crushing him with such immense pressure and weight that he couldn’t stay up any longer. His heart felt like a ton of lead in his chest, aching horribly as he choked out sob after sob, not even recognizing the noises that echoed amongst the walls.

So, really, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he felt the cool touch of a gun muzzle press against his temple. It took him a moment to register what it was; he heard the faint noise of the gun cock in his ear and let out a shaky sigh, his eyes still shut.

“It’s been SO fun, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice sending shivers down his spine. He swallowed thickly once more, keeping his eyes closed as the gun was pressed deeper into his skin.

“Do it,” he managed to spit out, inhaling another sharp breath.

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the life that he and John had planned out for each other.

But, nothing ever went the way he planned. In one way or another, he always managed to fuck it up. He wasn’t cut out for the “normal life”, never had been. Nothing about him was normal, and the one person in this world that had brought him a sense of normalcy was now lying dead on the ground a few feet away.

Life wasn’t fair, and he absolutely did not plan on staying around any longer to experience this cycle again.

It was hard to find himself at peace, despite knowing the fact that he was about to die. He mostly just felt numb; all that talk about your life flashing before your eyes right before you die was bullshit. Even if it did, all Sherlock was going to see was John collapsing on the ground, on a loop in his head. That was his final act upon the Earth...not being able to save John Watson.

Anything he’d find in hell would be infinitely better than that.

He heard Moriarty’s feet against the ground as he stood back up, the gun wavering slightly against it’s spot on his temple as he moved. Sherlock inhaled another breath, still shaking slightly and tried to picture John’s face one more time. His smiling, charming, beautiful face.

And then the gunshot went off.

For a moment, he wondered if this was what it was like to be dead. He felt no pain in his head, just the loud ringing in his ear from the noise. He lifted his head ever so slightly, slowly opening his eyes.

The wooden floor of the stage met his vision and he faltered slightly. Was this what hell was like? Having to sit here for an eternity next to your boyfriend’s lifeless, dead body? Seemed fitting. Sherlock turned his head to his right and blinked once, freezing up when he saw the spot where John’s body should be was now empty.

Another gunshot. Sherlock swung his head around the opposite way, towards the noise, just in time to see a gun slide across the stage floor. He followed it with his eyes briefly before looking back, his eyes widening in shock to see John standing a few feet in front of him, pointing a gun down towards Moriarty’s body writhing on the ground in front of him.

“You were supposed to be DEAD!” Moriarty spat out angrily, one of his hands pressed against the opposite forearm, blood spilling out from beneath his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes flickered downward to the newer gunshot on his leg, his suit pants growing dark from the wound. John cocked the gun once more, tilting his head to the side.

“Oh, by the way, to answer your question; yes, my boyfriend really IS a genius.” He reached his foot out and stepped onto his bleeding leg, getting a loud, anguished scream from him in return. He lowered the gun then, dropping his hands to his sides before turning to face Sherlock and, despite the entire fucking situation, giving him a soft smile.

“What do you know? I outsmarted the detective,” he mused.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach out and strangle him or grab his face and kiss him, but he didn’t get the chance to decide. He heard the loud noise of doors being pushed open, as well as the unmistakable noise of a helicopter overhead. He glanced up quickly, squinting his eyes as a spotlight fell on the three of them, pushing his hair from his eyes as the wind started up.

“Everything alright, brother mine?” Sherlock felt his body relax in sheer relief at Mycroft’s voice overhead, holding up a still slightly trembling thumbs up in response. What seemed like the entirety of Scotland Yard started piling in then, filtering down the various aisles and even appearing from the side entrances to the stage. Sherlock stepped aside, backing up a bit as they began swarming around Moriarty, yanking him up to half stand on his feet.

Lestrade appeared a few seconds later, giving Moriarty a slightly smug but mostly disgusted look. “Thought we got rid of you years ago,” he said pointedly, earning a haughty laugh on Moriarty’s part.

“There’s lots of things you think you know about me,” he responded smoothly, turning his head back to face Sherlock. “I’ll miss you, darling,” he lamented dramatically, spitting out another mouthful of blood before flashing him a grin. “Until next time.”

Sherlock remained expressionless as Lestrade quickly grabbed ahold of Moriarty’s arm, a team of four more men restraining him from all sides. “Shut up, mate. You’ll not be seeing these men ever again, understood?” He didn’t wait for a response, instead looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re okay?”

Sherlock nodded in response, watching with a grim expression as they began to lug him down the stage steps, down the aisle and out in the front for everyone to see. He was almost certain Moriarty was enjoying it all; he thrived off of attention.

Mycroft’s helicopter had disappeared from overhead now, leaving the swarm of police to start scoping out the rest of the building in peace. Sherlock glanced around quickly, watching officers pulling random people out of the wings and hidden spots in the audience, confiscating guns and yanking them towards the exit. He even witnessed people emerging from the stage trapdoor a few feet away, completely subdued in shiny silver handcuffs. He was so caught up in the scene playing out before him that he didn’t hear John walking towards him, jumping in fear when his hand made contact with his arm.

“Sherlock…” His voice was enough to make Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut involuntarily, a slight shudder running through his body. He was alive, and talking, and breathing, with his hand soft and warm against his coat sleeve...and this was real.

“I’m sorry, I knew it was a shitty plan but I didn’t know what else to do. I knew if he thought I was dead, he’d be caught off guard, and I was just waiting for the moment to jump up and shoot him-” John’s ramblings were suddenly cut short as Sherlock lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the man. His face immediately went to the top of his head, burying his face in his hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. He inhaled deeply, body still shuddering slightly as he kept him close to his chest.

“You’re never allowed to do that again,” he managed to whisper out, his voice still cracking slightly. John’s arms slid around his waist immediately, pressing his body against the detective’s.

“Never again,” he agreed softly, his voice muffled against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock sighed in relief for what seemed like the 12th time in a row, pulling away slightly and moving his arms up, his hands gripping the sides of John’s face and pulling it up to look at him.

“Everything last night, I swear to you...it’s not going to happen again.” John smiled faintly at him, leaning his cheek against one of his hands as Sherlock ran his thumb along the side of his face.

“I know, love. I trust you,” he stated simply, reaching up and gripping onto each of his wrists with his small hands gently.

“Now, shut up and kiss your boyfriend like it’s your damn job.”

And so Sherlock leaned down and did just that. He kissed him like it was their first time, kissed him like they didn’t have enough time in the world, kissed him like it was the last chance they had to. His once numb body was beginning to feel again, the warmth from John’s touches spreading through him like wildfire. It was all tongue and messy and probably not appropriate for the public (or his brother’s) eye, but Sherlock really couldn’t find it in him to care whatsoever. All that mattered right now was this, was him, was John.

His John.

The John he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

And, just like that, things were somewhat normal again.

**Author's Note:**

> whew! you made it! this is the longest fic i've written (one shot wise). i really hope everyone enjoyed! 
> 
> as always, i love getting comments on my stories. i'm open to any and all opinions. leave kudos as well, if you liked it!
> 
> my twitter is still @fingerkisslou, feel free to attack me there as well. until next time.
> 
> all the love as always. x


End file.
